


Tête à Tête

by LaVoileBlanche



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enjolras' POV, F/M, M/M, also copious amounts of coffee drinking, dumb boys, enjolras can read minds, i don't know if I made that clear enough, i had to write it, mind-reader!jolras, someone did a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2017-12-25 22:03:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 24,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaVoileBlanche/pseuds/LaVoileBlanche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From this post on Tumblr: </p><p>"AU where Enjolras is a mind-reader who learnt how to keep everyone out of his head, but then one day he’s tired and he let his guard off and Grantaire’s thoughts hit him and Enjolras blushes like an idiot because nobody never ever thought such nice and dirty things about him"</p><p>by  http://drunkpylades.tumblr.com</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One.

A lot of people think that Enjolras doesn't know what he's talking about when he rails against poverty and injustice. A rich white boy, they think, posturing to antagonise his rich white father. They are, of course, wrong. Enjolras moved out of his parents' house the day after he turned eighteen, and hasn't seen them in the four years since. He's had his share of living on super noodles and caffeine and the bare minimum he can earn from shitty jobs in shitty cafés, so he knows exactly what it's like.  
  
Of course, even if he _was_  living off of Daddy's paycheck, he'd still have a good idea of the desperation of near-poverty. This is because Enjolras can read minds, and has been able to since before he said his first word.  
  
He tries not to, (firstly because it's an invasion of privacy that he's just not comfortable exploiting, also because the migraines are unbearable,) but sometimes he slips up. It's not easy, to build up walls in your head and hold them, when all day, _every_ day, other people's thoughts are like a battering ram trying to break them down. Combeferre's good for that. His mind is an oasis of serenity, a peaceful blip in an otherwise chaotic world. It's why Enjolras was drawn to him in the first place. Listening to Combeferre's thoughts is something like curling up with your favourite book and listening to the rain outside your window, and when everything gets too loud, Enjolras finds it a welcome retreat. Combeferre is one of two people who know about Enjolras' ability, and Enjolras is endlessly grateful that he didn't turn and run the minute he found out.  
  
The only other person who knows is Courfeyrac, whose head is certainly not the soothing island of calm that Combeferre's is. It's more like a fairground in the height of summer, but Enjolras doesn't much mind. Courfeyrac is one of those people who just makes other people feel _good_ , and that's something just as valuable as Combeferre's comfortable solidity. Sometimes Enjolras needs it, the reassurance that Courfeyrac provides that no matter how bad things get, there is always a spark of goodness left in humanity somewhere. Combeferre's reaction to Enjolras' secret had been warm acceptance. Courfeyrac's had been a mix of excitement, and seemingly endless curiosity. They are his closest friends, and the only two people in the world who he knows won't abandon him for anything. Even intruding on their thoughts.  
  
*  
  
It is Friday and Enjolras is exhausted. His head is killing him, an incessant throbbing pain which he can't ignore, try as he might, and Combeferre is in class for another half hour, so there's no respite to be found with him, either. Fridays are always the worst days of his week. He has classes with three different professors and no reprieve between to gather his thoughts or reinforce his mind against _other people's_ thoughts. On Fridays it's very difficult to remember to answer people only _after_ they've spoken, and the effort of mentally blocking them all out is very, _very_   wearying.  
  
He sits in his favourite café, a little known place called the Corinthe, and tries to drown out the clammering voices that bounce around his skull. Part of the Corinthe's appeal is its relative anonymity, but today, a swarm of young people, dripping rainwater onto the carpet, have descended upon it to escape the deluge outside, and Enjolras is seriously debating walking home in the pouring rain just to get a moment of peace. They all think very _loudly_. But, he promised Combeferre he would meet him here, and he doesn't like breaking his word. Besides, he likes the coffee, and the café's matronly owner, a widow by the name of Houcheloup, is very accommodating when the rest of his friends show up, so he figures he owes her. They're not a small group, and they're not quiet by any stretch of the imagination, but somehow she always ensures they get the best chairs in the room, and discreetly ushers out any other customers when they settle in for a meeting.  
  
Enjolras looks up hopefully as the bell above the door rings, and tries to hide his disappointment when it's not Combeferre who enters, but a rain-soaked Marius. Marius is intelligent and very kind, but he's also very bad at reading social cues. Which means, despite the fact that Enjolras clearly wants to be left alone, when Marius catches his eye, he immediately makes a beeline for the chair opposite.  
  
"Hello, Enjolras. It's packed in here today, isn't it? I guess because of the rain. Are you waiting for Combeferre?" He asks, in one breath.  
  
"Yes." Enjolras replies shortly. Marius' thoughts are a tangle. He thinks quickly and doubts himself often, and even through the defences Enjolras puts in place to block him out, certain words and trails of opinion get through the cracks. Listening to Marius think is sort of like trying to enjoy a picnic in a field when you have hay fever.  
  
"Oh, okay. I'm going to meet Cosette here, too."  
  
"That's nice." Enjolras says. It's a little feeble, but he's tired, and as much as he likes Cosette and Marius, he's not too invested in their relationship as long as they're both happy. When Marius says her name, it drifts through his mind like a puff of lavender, layered over with affection. It's very sweet, but it does nothing for Enjolras' pounding head.  
  
There is an awkward lull in the conversation, and Marius checks his phone to give his hands something to do. Enjolras just closes his eyes and leans back in his chair, exhaling deeply. They both look up when the door opens again, and Enjolras lets out a sigh of relief when he recognises Combeferre's familiar figure coming towards them, and the cloud of familiarity and comfort that shrouds his thoughts.  
  
 _Hey, Enjolras. How's the head today?_  
  
Enjolras grimaces minutely in response to the question. They have gotten very good at this kind of communication, and Combeferre gives a sympathetic frown before turning to greet Marius. Enjolras doesn't really pay any attention to their conversation - though the word 'Cosette' breaks across his mind again - and instead focuses on losing himself in the tranquility of Combeferre's thoughts. It is only when Combeferre says goodbye to Marius that he comes back to himself, headache slightly appeased.  
  
"Have fun with Cosette." He says to Marius, and follows Combeferre out of the café and onto the blessedly quiet street. This is why he likes the rain. It drives people inside, where their thoughts can't disturb his.  
  
Combeferre stops to pull an umbrella and a packet of aspirin out of his bag.  
  
"You should stop forgetting these." He says, handing them both over. Enjolras accepts them gratefully, spilling two of the pills into his hand and swallowing with a grimace at the taste. He unfolds the red umbrella, and waits for Combeferre to extract his own blue one, and then they begin walking. Another one of the Corinthe's selling points is that it is only around the corner from the flat they share with Courfeyrac, and they're home within ten minutes.  
  
Enjolras sighs when they step over the doorway, toeing off his red converse and immediately making for the sofa, onto which he collapses bonelessly, hiding his face in a cushion. He can hear Courfeyrac singing obnoxious pop songs from the shower, but Combeferre moves quietly around him, making tea in the kitchen, putting away his bag in his bedroom, and Enjolras once again thanks whichever higher power decided that they would meet. He honestly doesn't know what he'd do without him.  
  
 _Fridays?_ Combeferre thinks, approaching the sofa, and Enjolras nods into the pillow, and moves his legs so he can sit. The second he does, he lays them back across his lap.  
  
They sit in silence apart from the occasionally flip of a page from Combeferre's direction, and Courfeyrac doing his very best Carly Rae Jepsen impression from the bathroom. A few minutes later, he enters the room, and stops when he notices his flatmates sitting on the sofa.  
  
"Fridays?" He asks, and Combeferre nods. Enjolras just groans into the pillow.  
  
"I'll try to keep it down." He promises, and as he passes the sofa, reaches over to pat Enjolras gently on the head, which feels much better now that he's not concentrating on closing his mind. The apartment he shares with Combeferre and Courfeyrac is pretty much the only place in the world where he can let his barriers down totally. As a result, the apartment is quiet a lot of the time, since Enjolras tends to reply to their thoughts rather than their words. It's nice to have that kind of intimacy with his closest friends, but sometimes he feels guilty that they can't do the same for him. It seems like an unfair exchange. After all, he is privy to pretty much anything in their heads, and they know only what he tells them.  
  
 _Enjolras_ , Combeferre thinks, to get his attention. _Are you going to be okay for the meeting tonight?_  
  
Enjolras sighs, and sits up.  
  
"Yeah," he says. "I'll be fine."  
  
 _You're sure?_ His concern would be obvious even if Enjolras wasn't a mind reader.  
  
"Yeah. I'll just remember the painkillers this time."

*

They are at the café first, as usual, and Courfeyrac buys Enjolras a mug of chamomile tea and forces him into a chair to take advantage of the peace before their friends arrive. About ten minutes later, Jehan walks through the door, smiling round at them all. Jehan's thoughts are like fine-spun glass, very beautiful, but prone to snapping and leaving him melancholy and quiet. Whenever he senses it happening, Enjolras tries to distract him. Jehan is the sweetest, gentlest soul he knows, and he doesn't deserve the sadness that so often plagues him. There is a black biro scrawl halfway up his arms, some new poem he's working on, probably, and he is wearing a baggy jumper in a shade of forest green that clashes horribly with his purple skinny jeans.  
  
"Hey, Prouvaire." Courfeyrac greets him. "How are things in the world of poetry and romantic metaphors?"  
  
Jehan smiles brilliantly at him.  
  
"Oh, you know, the same as ever."  
  
And they fall into easy conversation. Courfeyrac and Combeferre are good at running interference like this, so he isn't bombarded. He takes a deep breath, and begins to construct the walls in his mind that will keep the others out. They trickle in alone or in pairs. Jehan is followed by Joly and Bossuet, who are bundled in hats and scarves - almost definitely at Joly's insistence - and who precede Marius and Cosette, slightly damp, and pink-cheeked from the wind. Feuilly stumbles in behind them, looking exhausted from a day of hard work. He smiles and lifts a hand when he sees Enjolras, and then collapses heavily into his favourite armchair. Éponine is a few minutes later, wrapped in a too-big leather jacket and glowering. Enjolras winces. Her jackknife mind won't be a fun place tonight, and he's glad for his preparations. The little box of aspirin in his pocket rattles as he shifts.  
  
Courfeyrac looks around, brow furrowed.  
  
"Where're Bahorel and Grantaire?"  
  
"I don't know where they went, but they said they'd be here." Feuilly speaks up.  
  
"They'd better hurry." Enjolras says, standing. "I don't want to be here all night, if we can help it."  
  
"No worries, Chief." A voice comes from the door. "We wouldn't want to keep your pretty face waiting for too long."  
  
Enjolras tries to suppress a wince. He loves Bahorel like a brother, but... Well, he's pretty much the loudest person he knows. His every thought is like a gunshot.  
  
"Good." Enjolras responds. "Shall we get started, then?"  
  
*  
  
The meeting winds down a couple of hours later, and it's already dark outside. Enjolras' headache is back with a vengeance, to the point where even the soft lights of the café are irritating, and even Combeferre won't be able to help. Everyone is more or less relaxing, sitting in around in little groups and sipping hot drinks that Madame Houcheloup continues to bring out for them, despite the number of times Bossuet has dropped coffee onto her carpet. Their conversations are quiet, but every word, and every thought that accompanies it, is like ramming a thumbtack into the tissue of his brain.  
  
He grits his teeth, and rubs his eyes with the heels of his palm to try and block them out, but everything seems heightened. A groan of pain escapes him, and he senses Combeferre's worry before he asks,   
  
"Enjolras? You all right?" His voice is low, and his hand rests on Enjolras' shoulder.  
  
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." He removes his hands and straightens to pull the medicine out of his jeans. "It's just been a long day."  
  
"Okay. We'll wrap it up and get out of here soon. I'll let Courf know."  
  
He squeezes Enjolras shoulder soothingly, and then goes to drag Courfeyrac away from Cosette and Marius, whom he is embarrassing with tales of when they used to room together. Enjolras closes his eyes, and breathes deeply. He can hear the sharp edges of Éponine's jealousy, tapered down by her affection for Cosette in his head, and the soft buzz of Joly's worry as he examines a freckle on his arm that he hasn't noticed before.  
  
And then he hears his name, not spoken but thought, and stills. It's not Combeferre, or Courfeyrac, or anyone he's been listening to, but an unfamiliar flavour of thought, bitter like Éponine, melancholy like Jehan, carrying something else, too, something entirely _other_ , something specific to whoever it is thinking of him. He opens his eyes and casts them around, as if he'll be able to tell purely by sight whose thoughts he can hear so vividly. Combeferre and Courfeyrac he dismisses out of hand, Bahorel is laughing with Feuilly, Joly and Bossuet are holding hands and murmuring sweet nothings to each other, Cosette is teasing Marius, Éponine is curled into a chair and drinking something from a silver flask, and Jehan is scrawling on his arm again. Which leaves -  
  
He locks eyes with Grantaire for a split second, and then the artist ducks his head, blushing, and Enjolras looks away again, pretending to check his phone, but still listening keenly to the open channel of his thoughts, headache all but forgotten. He's curious, and hates himself for that, because Grantaire doesn't know that he can hear him, and he shouldn't take advantage of that, but it's irresistible. He realises that he hasn't ever had his guard down like this around Grantaire, and wonders why that is. Maybe he'd been worried that cynicism was contagious, he speculates wryly.  
  
Grantaire's thoughts are strangely soothing. They remind him of saltwater. And, he notices with surprise, he features heavily in them. He feels a blush creeping up his cheeks at the things Grantaire thinks, the way his name appears every now and then like a streak of fiery brilliance, bright and passionate and soaked in adoration. And in the back of his mind, he is recreating Enjolras' image in gold and red, and Enjolras has never ever imagined that someone could see him the way Grantaire does. He risks another glance in the cynic's direction, and looks away quickly when he sees Grantaire watching him. He bites his lip self-consciously, and Grantaire's thoughts take an unexpected turn. He sees himself, and Grantaire, and Grantaire kissing his way up his neck, across his jaw, running his fingers through his hair, _Grantaire_ biting his lip, and Enjolras _letting_ him, leaning into his touch and pulling him closer with hungry hands on Grantaire's hips, and -  
  
Combeferre's voice shocks him out of the thought.  
  
"Enjolras, are you ready to go?"  
  
Enjolras blinks at him, uncomprehending, his mind still stuck on the images from Grantaire's head.  
  
"Are you okay? You look kind of strange." The concern in his tone pulls Enjolras back into himself properly.  
  
"No, no, I'm fine, I just- let's go." Combeferre looks sceptical, but drops it, and turns to gesture to Courfeyrac, who is listening intently to whatever Jehan is talking about. While his attention is elsewhere, Enjolras darts another look at Grantaire. He is bending to pick his jacket off of the floor, but as if he senses Enjolras' gaze he straightens and turns, and this time when their eyes meet, neither of them looks away until Combeferre lets everyone know that they are leaving, and Enjolras is forced to break eye contact to make his goodbyes.  
  
Combeferre and Courfeyrac clearly pick up on his distraction, and make conversation with each other as they walk home. Enjolras stays a step behind them, lost in thought. Grantaire is... Well, Grantaire is a mystery to him. Beyond his alcoholism and general self-destructiveness, beyond his cynicism and his refusal to back down when he starts an argument, Enjolras knows very little about him. He’s older than Enjolras, lives alone, and Enjolras has a vague idea that he does kickboxing and fencing and knows some kind of dance, but other than that? His knowledge is more than limited - it's non-existent.  
  
Maybe he should change that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Enjolras has a plan, and the Golden Trio make an appearance.

Saturday morning almost passes Enjolras by. He wakes up at half past ten to an empty apartment, and a blissfully empty head. A note from Combeferre lies on the table, informing him that he has dragged Courfeyrac to the library to give Enjolras some peace. The ache from last night has been reduced to an uncomfortable memory, but of course, as he thinks on it, _other_ memories arise, and as he brews coffee in the kitchen, he comes up with a plan.

The Musain is the other café most frequented by him and his friends, and closer to Grantaire's apartment, so he figures that's his best bet. He shrugs on his red peacoat and braves the chill autumnal weather, jamming his hands into his pockets to keep them from freezing. The Musain is warm and welcoming, and he breathes a relieved sigh when he walks through the door and a blast of hot air hits him. The food here is better than at the Corinthe, and it doubles as a bar, but it's also louder and smaller, and the baristas aren't as friendly, even the one who has something of a crush on him (he's a painfully shy student a couple of years younger than Enjolras, with mousy brown hair and a thing for blonds, but Enjolras knows who he voted for in the last election, and it's never going to happen.)

He orders some kind of latte and settles in to wait with one eye on the door and a book that Combeferre has borrowed from Jehan. It's something about meditation and how it can help with mental health and stress levels, and Enjolras doesn't hold much faith in that kind of thing, but he's willing to try, for Combeferre. He's barely two chapters in when a familiar figure in a forest-green beanie stumbles through the door, looking haggard and very very cold. He doesn't even notice Enjolras at first, going straight up to the counter and - presumably - ordering the hottest drink they can offer him, but the minute he turns around with the steaming mug cupped in both his hands, his eyes land on Enjolras, and the colour runs out of his cold-flushed cheeks.

Enjolras waves, a little awkwardly, and considers the idea that maybe he didn't think this through. Grantaire looks nothing short of alarmed to see him, and that's not what he wants at all. He reminds himself sharply that he's not going to read Grantaire's mind to find out exactly what he's thinking as he makes his way over hesitantly, but the temptation sticks around as he takes the seat opposite.

"Hi." Enjolras says with a small smile. Grantaire looks like a deer caught in the headlights.

"...Hi." He replies eventually. "What are you doing here? I thought the Corinthe was your daily haunt."

Enjolras shrugs.

"I fancied a change in scenery." He says, scanning Grantaire's features surreptitiously. He looks tired, that's the first thing Enjolras picks up on. His eyes are bloodshot, and set above dark circles, and his shoulders slope downwards with exhaustion. Enjolras recognises the symptoms from his reflection in the mirror on too many occasions to count.

Grantaire nods, still looking confused.

"Okay." He says, and then falls silent, contemplating the dark contents of his mug almost morosely. Enjolras is alight with curiosity, and though he tries to tamp down on the urge to delve into Grantaire's mind, the temptation proves too much.

He breaks through the saltwater stream of consciousness and has to suppress a wince. Grantaire is hungover, and it's not pleasant, even secondhand. But he adjusts quickly. With migraines like his, an average headache is considered getting off lightly.

His name is there, in Grantaire's head again. And - he almost blushes - he's admiring his coat. Enjolras hasn't removed it since sitting down, and Grantaire, with his artist's eyes, admires the soft fabric, and the way it flatters Enjolras' form. He likes the colour, too, apparently. Enjolras can't help but tug at the hem self-consciously, and he watches Grantaire blush as he does so, and quickly try to hide it behind his mug.

"What brings you here, though?" Enjolras asks, desperate for anything to relieve the awkward silence.

"Oh, you know, coffee is supposed to be the miracle cure for hangovers and I ran out of the instant stuff a few weeks ago. This place just seems more convenient, now."

"Did you go out last night?"

Grantaire looks at him a little strangely, and Enjolras notices the start of the flush creeping back into his cheeks.

"Yeah. I erm, had a lot on my mind and wanted to relax. Or something."

Enjolras doesn't miss the way Grantaire's eyes flit over his body when he says 'a lot on my mind,' and it makes something in his stomach flutter in an unfamiliar way.

"What was on your mind?" He says, and it's probably one of the most ridiculous questions he's ever asked. If Courfeyrac were here, he would be laughing himself silly.

Grantaire is definitely blushing now.

"Just um," he clears his throat. "Art, and stuff. Nothing out of the ordinary."

It's a somewhat disappointing answer, but then Enjolras doesn't know what he'd been expecting. An expectant silence folds around them, and Enjolras is losing faith in this idea by the second.

"Oh, okay. Erm -"

He's about to make his excuses and leave, because every second he sits there ignoring the question he really wants to ask, the situation becomes more and more uncomfortable, but a sudden change comes over Grantaire's expression, like he's resolved an immense personal struggle, and it stops him. He leans towards him without even meaning to.

"Listen, do you wanna go for a walk, or something? I could do with some fresh air and -"

"Okay."

Enjolras speaks before Grantaire can finish his sentence, and he watches as he processes his answer. He indulges himself once more, and drops in on his thoughts.

_Shitshitshit okay be cool stop stressing out about this, it doesn't mean anything it's just a walk. With Enjolras. A walk with Enjolras. With **Enjolras**. Shit I am so fucked._

He has to force himself not to smile at the stream of profanity throughout which his name is dotted haphazardly. To be honest, Grantaire's attitude is almost... touching, really. He doesn't think he's ever had such an effect on anyone before.

"Okay. Good. Let's go."

Enjolras raises an eyebrow as Grantaire stands, wiping his palms on the thighs of his jeans.

"Aren't you going to finish your coffee?" He asks, and Grantaire shakes his head almost violently. He looks a little jittery.

"No I'm - I'm good."

Enjolras just shrugs amicably and stands, ready to follow Grantaire out of the little café.

They walk aimlessly, no direction in mind, and Enjolras is both amused and delighted by the state of Grantaire's head, which seems trapped in a whirl because of him. He asks Grantaire questions and half-listens to the answers while focusing the rest of himself on the thoughts that arise as he speaks. He knows he's going to pay for this later - nothing takes its toll quite like mind-reading - but at the moment he can't bring himself to care. Grantaire's head is like the ocean. It's vast and mysterious, and the waves of his thoughts alternate between blinding clarity and murkiness. Enjolras imagines sharp edges of coral beneath the surface as he takes tentative steps through the eddying tides of Grantaire's thoughts. It's fascinating. Enjolras learns more about Grantaire than he'd ever imagined there was to know.

And, quite beside everything Enjolras sees in his head, there's the fact that Grantaire is actually good company. After the first awkward minutes, he has gained confidence, and talks freely about anything and everything, and Enjolras finds himself drawn into conversation, disagreeing and learning and even _laughing_ as Grantaire speaks.

Eventually - and Enjolras doesn't know how long it's been, exactly - they stop in front of Grantaire's building, and Grantaire explains that he has work to get back to. Enjolras tries not to be disappointed.

"That's okay, I probably have something waiting for me too." He says.

"No rest for the wicked." Grantaire agrees with a wry smile. "I'll see you around."

"Yeah." And he turns to leave. Grantaire's voice halts him in his tracks, and he faces him again, frowning his confusion. Grantaire has that look on his face again, like he's just made a decision that could change his life.

"Why were you at the café today, really?" He asks. It doesn't even occur to Enjolras to lie again.

"I just wanted to see you." He says simply, and once again starts walking away. This time, Grantaire doesn't stop him.

*

(Grantaire stands in the street for a solid five minutes after Enjolras is out of sight. He's having a difficult time stringing together a coherent thought. Staggering into his apartment, he is unsurprised to find Jehan lounging on his sofa, and ignores him, heading straight to the fridge to pull out a beer.

"Did Senpai notice you today?" Jehan asks breezily, without looking away from the TV. He's watching anime, without subtitles, as he is wont to do. Jehan's always been good with languages.

"Don't even joke." Grantaire mutters, taking a seat next to him, and at Jehan's curious and slightly concerned look, sighs. "He was at the Musain this morning."

Jehan's eyebrows rise.

"Tell me about it." Grantaire says. "And we actually sat and had _coffee_ together.")

•

Enjolras gets home before Combeferre and Courfeyrac return from the library, lying on his stomach on his bed with the lights off and the curtains drawn so as not to aggravate his head. This is his own fault, he knows, but it doesn’t make him feel better about it. There’s a quiet knock at his door, and he calls out a muffled, “Yeah,” to let Combeferre know he’s okay to enter.

_Are we thinking or speaking, today?_

Enjolras thinks about it.

“Speaking, I think.” He decides, and Combeferre nods to himself.

“I brought you tea.” He says, and Enjolras rolls onto his back and sits up with a tired smile.

“Someone should be paying you.” He tells Combeferre, gratefully accepting the mug he holds out to him.

“I agree.” Combeferre replies. “But alas, no such luck.”

He sits down next to Enjolras at the edge of the bed.

“So where did you go out today?” He asks, and Enjolras blinks in surprise.

“I thought I was the mind reader here.” He says. Combeferre shrugs.

“Your head wouldn’t hurt if you’d stayed home like this all day.” He points out, and, yeah, he’s got a point. Enjolras sighs.

“I just went out to the café.” He’ll tell Combeferre when he’s ready to. Courfeyrac, too. But he’s still not sure how he feels about reading Grantaire’s thoughts so freely, and he doesn’t want them to know, not yet.

“The Corinthe?”

“The Musain.” He corrects him, somewhat reluctantly.

Combeferre raises his eyebrows.

“Really.” He says.

“Yeah. For a change.” He clarifies.

“Right.” Combeferre nods. Enjolras doesn’t need telepathy to know that he doesn’t buy it.

He decides to come right out and say it.

“Grantaire was there.” He says.

“Hm.” Is all the reply Combeferre makes. “I see.”

Enjolras wants to ask what it is, exactly, that he sees, but he isn’t sure how much he wants to hear the answer.

“Where’s Courf?” He asks, in an incredibly transparent attempt to salvage the conversation and maintain a little bit of his dignity.

“Kitchen. Something about savoury pancakes. I didn’t ask.”

That seems like a wise decision. It is always a little bit worrying when Courfeyrac decides to cook, because he falls somewhere between Enjolras’ complete inability and Combeferre’s terrifying competence, and on any given day, you could be eating the most delicious meal of your life, or dying of accidental poisoning.  

"Maybe I should go back to the café, in that case."

Courfeyrac's voice comes from the doorway.

"I heard that, and I'd like it to be noted that I am mortally wounded by such flippant lack of faith. I am an artist in the kitchen."

"Abstract, maybe." Combeferre says dryly, and Courfeyrac gasps and clutches at his heart. Enjolras smiles, and Courfeyrac seems to recover very quickly, entering the room and wriggling into the very small gap between Combeferre and Enjolras.

"So, how are we today, O Fearless Leader?" He asks, wrapping both arms around Enjolras' waist in a kind of sideways embrace. "How's your melon?"

From his other side, Combefere interjects, "You know, Courf, no-one in real life refers to people's heads as melons. It doesn't happen."

"And I would value your opinion so much more, my dear Combeferre, if you were not so callous about my cooking skills. You are a cruel man." Courfeyrac replies without even turning to look at him. "And I was talking to Enjolras, anyway."

At this, he raises his eyebrows pointedly in Enjolras' direction.

"Headache's back." He reports, and Courfeyrac frowns sympathetically, squeezing him around the middle.

"You poor thing, you." He says.

"It's his own fault." Combeferre objects, amused.

"Combeferre, your heartlessness knows no bounds. Look at our poor leader. He's in terrible pain."

Enjolras obligingly tries to look more like he's in terrible pain, but Combeferre just snorts and steals his tea.

"Hey!" Enjolras protests half-heartedly, and Courfeyrac half-releases him to turn on Combeferre.

"You treacherous soul." He says. "Stealing from someone in Enjolras' fragile state. What would your mother think?"

"She'd think that you were a ridiculous drama queen, and that I deserve this tea for putting up with you." Combeferre replies smoothly, and Enjolras can't really fault his logic. His head is starting to feel better, just by being around these two. It makes his insides warm, that their mere presence can soothe him so well.

Courfeyrac ignores his retort completely, and turns his attention back to Enjolras.

"The question, of course, is are you well enough to go to Feuilly's thing tonight?"

"Feuilly's thing" is actually just them all getting together for drinks (which Enjolras won't touch) and shitty movies, and Enjolras thinks he can probably handle it. He says as much to Courfeyrac.

"Wonderful." Courfeyrac responds, grinning.

"Whose going to be there, Courf?" Combeferre asks. His voice is innocent, but Enjolras narrows his eyes at him. Ulterior motives, he thinks. Courfeyrac doesn't notice.

"Everyone, I think. the Baron's going to be there," - 'the Baron' is Courfeyrac's affectionate nickname for Marius. They are all slightly afraid to ask about the story behind it - "Erm, Cosette, Bahorel and Jehan, obviously, Joly, Bossuet, 'Chetta can't make it, ‘Ponine and Grantaire."

"Hm." Says Combeferre. Enjolras glares at him over the top of Courfeyrac's head.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a little bit overwhelmed with the response the first chapter of this got, so I thought I'd thank you by getting the next installment up quickly. 
> 
> As always, thanks to drunkpylades and Rayne.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feuilly's thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is significantly shorter than the others have been so far, and I'm sorry about that. Hopefully, the next couple of chapters (which I aim to have up this weekend) will make up for it.

Several hours later, and Enjolras has downed some aspirin and is standing outside the door to the apartment that Feuilly shares with Jehan and Bahorel, alongside Combeferre and Courfeyrac. His head feels much better, and it’s times like these that he gets suspicious that Combeferre is spiking his tea, but he’s not complaining. He tends to be more agreeable when his head isn’t ringing like the bells of Notre Dame, and when they all get together like this, disagreeable is the last thing he wants to be.

Feuilly opens the door looking harried, and Enjolras knows he’s had a hard day at the call centre where he works, but he smiles when he sees them, and accepts the six pack of beer that Courfeyrac holds out to him. There’s a dangerously tall stack of DVDs by the TV, and Bahorel, Marius and Cosette have already snagged the best seats around the coffee table.

“Where’s Jehan?” Combeferre asks, looking around for Feuilly’s other roommate. Enjolras is wondering the same, but it didn’t occur to him to ask the question out loud, not when the answer is floating at the top of Feuilly's autumn leaf thoughts.

“I think he was hanging out at R’s, today.” Bahorel answers before Feuilly can, speaking between attempts to catch pieces of popcorn in his mouth.  

“Is Grantaire okay?” Courfeyrac asks with a frown. It’s a fair enough question, considering their shared track history, because Jehan is either Grantaire's therapist or his drinking buddy, and it's genereally not good news if he needs either.

“Yeah, he’s fine. I think Jehan was just getting sick of the NCIS reruns.” Feuilly says, looking pointedly at Bahorel.

“NCIS is awesome and you all know it.” Is all he says to defend himself.

Courfeyrac pushes further into the apartment. When he sees Marius, sitting innocently beside Cosette and smiling in that lovesick way he has, he yells out his name and tackles him into a bear hug. Marius flails, and they both over-balance and roll off the sofa. Courfeyrac still doesn’t let go, and Enjolras decides to take advantage and seats himself in the space left next to Cosette, who looks completely unperturbed by the fact that her boyfriend is currently being smothered with exuberant kisses from his ex-roommate.

“Hey, Cosette. How’s that thing with that Inspector and your dad going?” Enjolras asks, and Cosette wrinkles her nose.

“Oh you know. Dad’s kind of paranoid, this guy’s as obsessive as ever and neither of them want to talk it over. The usual nonsense.”

They talk for a little while, about Javert and Cosette's Women's Studies professor who isn't actually a total moron as she'd previously suspected, and at some point during their conversation, Joly and Bossuet enter to delighted shouts from Courfeyrac, who hasn't yet released Marius from his death grip.

There's an interesting anecdote to accompany the blue plaster on Bossuet's cheek, and then Enjolras heads to the kitchen for a drink, and is pulled into a discussion with Feuilly about things in Syria and then in Japan.

Everyone except Enjolras and Combeferre is happily on their way to being drunk when Éponine strolls in and steals Bahorel's drink, and by the time Jehan and Grantaire finally arrive, the living room is in practical chaos. Grantaire meets his eyes hesitantly as he steps over the threshold, and Enjolras smiles and firmly ignores the desire to read his thoughts. A couple of hours later, Feuilly calls order while they decide what film to watch (it's called 'Sharktopus,' and Enjolras sees no way this can end well,) and as they shuffle to make themselves comfortable around the TV, Enjolras finds himself pressed thigh-to-thigh against Grantaire with Bahorel's immovable mass on his other side. Grantaire's cheeks are slightly pink, and Enjolras wonders is that's his fault, or down to the bottle clenched in Grantaire's hand that is nowhere near the first he's emptied.

He's good, for a little while, self-restraint holding out against the way he's conscious of every move Grantaire makes beside him, and he's content to sit and listen to the amusing stream of commentary that always accompanies films like this, but as Sharktopus jumps to literally bite a bungee jumper out of the air, and Grantaire smiles but doesn't quite laugh, it gets more difficult. He has noticed little glances shot towards him all night, since Grantaire followed Jehan into the apartment, and they are more frequent throughout the film, Grantaire's eyes are wider than usual and - is it his imagination? - _bluer_ than usual, and Enjolras has never so keenly sympathised with Eve, because he knows that Grantaire's thoughts are forbidden fruit but he wants them anyway.

He holds out for another ten minutes, and is quite proud of himself, but eventually it gets too hard, and he peels back the layers of defense in his own head. He doesn't even have to reach out to hear the clear track of Grantaire's thoughts.

Half of him is focused on the movie, (as much as a mind can focus on a film where the antagonist is literally a hybrid of shark and octopus,) and the rest is sort of... screaming.

Well, screaming is an exaggeration, but there's no denying that Grantaire is very, very aware of their proximity and his thoughts sort of reflect that. Enjolras can feel heat creeping up his own cheeks as he intrudes, because Grantaire, evidently, has a very vivid imagination.

His name, called mentally by a familiar tone makes him stumble his way out of the images from Grantaire's head, and he meets Combeferre's eyes and tries to look innocent.

_What are you doing?_ Combeferre thinks at him, and Enjolras frowns minutely, as if to say "I don't know what you're talking about."

Combeferre raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.

_Really. Because it looked like you were maybe listening to things you shouldn't have been listening to._

Enjolras very carefully doesn't look at Grantaire.

_We're going to talk about this._ Combeferre promises, and Enjolras has to suppress a groan. He rebuilds the dam around his head, reluctantly, blocking out Grantaire and all the rest of them one at a time, and returns attention to the screen where Sharktopus is tearing into the protagonist's best friend.

'Sharktopus' is followed by the equally atrocious 'Megapirahna,' and then one which is simply called 'Mammoth,' and after that winds down to its long-awaited close, people melt out of the positions they've melted into, and begin shrugging on jackets and coats, and Enjolras helps clear the empty bottles into the kitchen. As Marius and Cosette make their goodbyes at the door (Marius staggering a little bit), he picks up the leftover popcorn from behind the sofa and Éponine rejects Jehan's offer of a sleeping bag in favour of relieving Cosette's father of Gavroche-sitting duties. Grantaire offers to walk her home and the two of them, too, disappear into the night, Grantaire casting a backwards glance at him as if it's impossible not to. Bahorel is all-but asleep on the sofa, curled up like a cat, and Courfeyrac is eyeing him mischievously, so Combeferre decides that it's time for them to leave, too.

He drives back home without asking any difficult questions, but Enjolras isn't naive enough to think he's off the hook. Likely he's just biding his time, and waiting for them to be in a situation where Courfeyrac isn't mumbling Katy Perry songs distractingly into the backseat.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath. Combeferre should never, ever be underestimated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, I realised Chapter Three was a bit of a non-event? Chapter Four should move things along a bit.

Sure enough, Enjolras stumbles out of bed at eleven am and on his way to the coffee machine, is sidetracked by Combeferre sitting and reading calmly at the table, waiting for him. He stops, and looks at him imploringly, and Combeferre nods. He at least gets his coffee before the lecture.

Caffeinated and feeling slightly more human, Enjolras takes a seat opposite Combeferre resignedly, already holding a second steaming mug in both hands.

"So." He says, and Combeferre looks up from his book with an eyebrow raised. "How did you manage to get rid of Courfeyrac?"

"I didn't. He left in a hurry about half an hour ago. Something about Jehan and a show called Attack on Titan? I tend not to listen to him when he's tearing out of the door." He doesn't look away from Enjolras the whole time he's talking, making it abundantly clear that he won't be distracted. Enjolras knows him too well to have even hoped for that. He sighs.

"Shall we get this over with, then?" He says, and Combeferre doesn't hesitate.

"Why have you been reading Grantaire's mind." He says, and he doesn't even have the decency to make it sound like a question. Enjolras takes a fortifying sip of his coffee before answering.

"It's complicated." He says eventually. Combeferre looks decidedly unsatisfied with that, so he continues, "I was having a bad day. I noticed that he was thinking about me. I was curious."

He doesn't elaborate on what Grantaire's thoughts entailed, and thankfully, Combeferre doesn't ask.

"Is that why you met him at the Musain yesterday?"

"Yes." He admits. "I'd never really listened to him, before. I was surprised by how often he thought of me. By what he thought of me."

Combeferre fixes him with a very serious look.

"Enjolras." He says. "You are aware that he has feelings for you."

Enjolras feels his cheeks colouring, Grantaire's fantasies resurfacing.

"Yes." He says, even though it wasn't a question.

"Do you have feelings for him?"

The question takes him aback. How _does_ he see Grantaire, now?

"I... don't know." He answers truthfully, brow furrowed. He thinks of all the things he has learned about Grantaire since the meeting on Friday when he had first stumbled onto his thoughts. He thinks of the way Grantaire feels, and compares it to his own emotions. He thinks of Grantaire's green beanie, sitting back on black curls whose ends are a little paler from where green dye has washed out, and blue-eyed glances he catches just at the edge of his vision. He doesn't know how he feels about Grantaire.

Combeferre nods slowly, as if he'd been expecting that.

"Okay." He says. "Are you going to see him again? Alone?"

Enjolras mulls it over.

"Yes. I think so."

"Okay." Combeferre repeats. "You know you can't keep invading his thoughts like that, don't you? Courfeyrac and I, we don't mind, but it's not fair to R."

"I know." Enjolras answers quickly, and he does know. "I know I can't. You remember how reluctant I was to read your mind, even after you and Coureyrac both said it was okay? I don't _like_ eavesdropping like that. It's dishonest." He hesitates, and bites his lip nervously. "But it's so hard to resist, with Grantaire. I don't know why. Maybe my self-restraint just isn't as good as it used to be. But I am _trying_ , Combeferre. I promise you that."

Combeferre considers him.

"I believe you." He says, and relief floods though Enjolras. Combeferre's disapproval might just have killed him. "But if anything happens, you have to tell him. He deserves to know what he's getting into."

"I know. But who said anything's going to happen, right?"

Combeferre hums in a maddeningly thoughtful kind of way, but doesn't say anything more, going back to his book.

Enjolras is frankly too relieved to have gotten off so lightly to give much thought to his friend's enigmatic response, and, cheered, goes to shower.

*

When he emerges barely twenty minutes later, damp and not _remotely_ dressed, Grantaire is sitting at his table, talking to Combeferre.

Their conversation stops dead as he leaves the bathroom, and he is abruptly very, very grateful that he'd had the foresight to change into his boxers as soon as he was dry. Although according to Grantaire's thoughts, which hit him like a wrecking ball, they're not a whole lot better than if he'd just come out in a towel. He watches Grantaire's eyes follow a single drop of water trail down his stomach, watches his tongue flit over his lips unconsciously, and blushes.

"Hi." He manages. "Sorry I'll just -" and gestures to his bedroom door.

"No, it's fine." Grantaire says, sounding a little faint. He hasn't quite managed to redirect his eyes to somewhere that isn't Enjolras' bare torso. "Don't worry about it."

Enjolras ducks into his room and almost slams the door. His heart is beating too quickly, and he reprimands it. After all, it's Grantaire's imagination that has it running so hot. _Enjolras_ wasn't the one thinking of Grantaire's tongue tracing hot patterns over his wet skin. It wasn't _Enjolras_ picturing the way Grantaire might kiss him dry and run his paint-stained fingers through Enjolras' clean hair as he pressed him against the wall. Though of course, he is now.

Enjolras' shakes himself firmly. _You promised Combeferre_ , he reminds himself, and dresses quickly. When he exits his room, soft red hoodie unzipped over his shirt and his well-loved black jeans hugging his legs, he can't avoid picking up the mourning of his mostly-unclothed state that comes from Grantaire's head. Although, it is slightly tempered by approval at his new look. Enjolras hadn't realised his jeans were that tight.

He smiles, and hopes it comes across as a totally normal expression from someone who is absolutely not reading his mind.

"Sorry about that," he says. Unnecessarily, since Grantaire certainly wasn't complaining, but still. "Combeferre didn't tell me he invited you over."

"I forgot." Combeferre lies faultlessy. Enjolras hates him a little bit.

"It's okay." Says Grantaire, looking at his hands. "We were just talking about -"

Whatever he is going to say next is cut off by the loud vibration of Combeferre's phone against the tabletop. He picks it up smoothly.

"Hello?" He says, and stands, moving into the kitchen for a bit of privacy. Leaving Enjolras alone with Grantaire, and the vague idea that he might just kill him later.

Grantaire bravely decides to make the best of an undoubtedly awkward situation and asks, "So, what did you think of the ending of Sharktopus?"

It's a lame attempt, they both know, but Enjolras is exceedingly grateful for it. It draws his attention away from glowering in Combeferre's general direction.

"Mostly I thought it was long overdue." He replies dryly, and Grantaire grins.

"What, are you telling me you have something against the idea of a giant hybrid of a shark and an octopus? I'm surprised."

"Hybrids I have no problem with." Enjolras says, smiling in spite of himself. "What bothers me is that despite the fact that neither sharks nor octopi can breathe out of the water, Sharktopus spent the last half-hour of the film terrorising the people at the inland resort."

Grantaire tuts in mock disapproval.

"You just need to open your mind a little." he says. "Anything is possible if you believe."

"That's a rich statement, coming from you." Enjolras points out, but it's playful, and Grantaire's grin only widens.

"Hey, maybe inexcusably awful B-movies bring out the optimist in me."

It's only when their attention is distracted by Combeferre re-entering that Enjolras realises he and Grantaire have just been kind of smiling ridiculously at each other.

"It was Courf." Combeferre says, holding up the mobile. "I'm gonna go pick him up from Jehan's because he is a lazy idiot who will complain incessantly if I make him walk. Grantaire, I'll be back in a little while, if you want to wait...?"

But Grantaire shakes his head.

"Nah, that's okay. I've got stuff to do, anyway, so..."

"In that case, will you take Enjolras with you? He'll get restless and mess up my bookshelf if I leave him here." Combeferre accounts for Grantaire's rejection of his offer admirably.

Grantaire and Enjolras look at each other.

"I mean, sure, if you've got nothing else to do."

"No, not if you don't mind me hanging around..."

"Perfect." Says Combeferre, shrugging on his jacket. "I'll see you later."

And without another word, sweeps out of the apartment.

Enjolras wonders, not for the first time, if he hasn't made a huge error in befriending someone so dangerous.

*

“Combeferre’s bookshelf?” Grantaire asks, amused, after he’s gone. Enjolras rolls his eyes.

“It was one time.” He says.

“What happened?”

Enjolras sighs.

“I was bored. I wanted something to read. It’s not my fault that Combeferre organises his books by a system that’s indecipherable to everyone except him.”

Grantaire chuckles quietly, and then lapses into silence while Enjolras searches for his shoes by the door.  

“You don’t have to come, if you don’t want to.” Grantaire’s voice comes from behind him, and he sounds like he’s anticipating rejection already. Enjolras looks up at him from where he’s tying his laces. His mouth is twisted in a rueful half-smile.

“I want to.” He assures him, and it’s worth watching the realisation on Grantaire’s face and the wide-eyed grin, like he hadn’t dared to hope for those words from Enjolras’ lips.

“Okay then.” He says, like he’s still a little bit in shock, and Enjolras smiles. He stands, red converse secured.

“So where are we going?” He asks.

“Er, I usually go sketch at the park about now.” Grantaire admits. He runs a hand through his curls and his voice does that thing again, when it slides into being self-conscious. Enjolras is quickly discovering how much he dislikes that tone of voice from Grantaire. It doesn’t suit him. “It will probably be really boring for you…”

Enjolras is quick to dispel his doubts.

“I don’t mind.” He says. “Boring can be good, sometimes.”

When Grantaire tries to hide that his whole face lights up at that, Enjolras decides to rethink killing Combeferre. After all, anything that makes Grantaire smile like that has to be a good idea.

He’s still definitely going to hide his favourite dictionary, though.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The not-a-date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, today. Sorry about that.

The park is mostly empty, with only a few brave families clinging onto the last of summer in defiance of the rusty leaves on the trees and the feral wind that sweeps across them every once in a while. Enjolras is glad he remembered to tie his hair back. They find an unoccupied bench at the side of a path lined with trees, and Grantaire pulls a worn sketchbook out of his bag, along with a pack of sharpened pencils. Enjolras admits, a little chagrined, that he knows next to nothing about art, and Grantaire takes advantage of his ignorance to demonstrate how different strokes and pressures can be used to achieve different effects. Enjolras doesn’t much care for the frivolities and intricacies, but he can appreciate Grantaire’s enthusiasm as he carefully smudges a grey line under his thumb.

Eventually, they lapse into a comfortable silence, Grantaire’s pencil on the creamy page and the distant laughter of children in the playground the only sounds to disturb them, but it is still a far cry from boring, no matter what Grantaire says. Enjolras is mindful of his promise to Combeferre, and doesn’t peek into Grantaire’s thoughts even once, and he is surprised at how content he is to just sit beside him and watch him draw. This is something that Grantaire loves, Enjolras can tell, and to be allowed to witness it warms him, so that not even the wind is a concern. Grantaire smells like tobacco and whiskey, and thunderstorms and clean paper, and he caresses the pencil in his hand as if it’s something precious.

Time passes too quickly, and by the time Grantaire looks up from his drawing, it’s getting dark.

“Wow, I didn’t realise it was so late.” He says. Enjolras has been watching his hands, stained black and silver with graphite, and only looks up when he speaks. He notices, then, the chill that evening brings to wrap around them, and is unable to suppress a shiver, wishing he’d brought his coat rather than his comparatively thin hoodie. Grantaire notices his discomfort, and frowns unhappily. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t think we’d be out here for so long. Do you want to get coffee or...?"

Enjolras nods.

“Coffee sounds great.” He says.

“Right, coffee it is.” Grantaire looks at him with apologetic eyes. “I _am_ sorry.” He says, “I lose track of the time, sometimes.”

“It’s fine.” Enjolras promises, and it is. He does the same, whenever there’s an issue to be researched or a protest to be planned. “I like watching you draw.” He adds, without really knowing why.

Grantaire smiles, almost shyly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” and before the situation can evolve, he flashes a quick smile and says, “So, the Musain, right?”  
  
And Grantaire nods.

The Musain is busier than the park, but for once Enjolras doesn’t mind the crowd. He’s holding up remarkably well against the barrage of their thoughts, and when he and Grantaire settle into a corner, mugs warming their cold hands, he hardly notices them.

One cup of coffee (although Enjolras has green tea instead) quickly turns into two, and then Enjolras’ phone buzzes insistently in his pocket and he opens it with an apologetic smile to Grantaire to find a string of messages from Courfeyrac:

**14:48**

_Enjolras ‘Ferre says you’ve gone out. I am shocked and offended that I wasn’t invited. <3_

**15:04**

_I’ll forgive you if you come home soon. <3_

**15:27**

_Combeferre won’t let me cook anymore :( . This is why I like you better. <3_

**15:39**

_Enjolras where are yooooooooooooouuuuuuuuuuuuu? :’((((( <3_

and one from Combeferre:

**16:10**

_Assuming you won't be back for dinner. Courfeyrac is inconsolable._

He looks up, surprised to see that Grantaire has leant over to read the messages upside-down. He’s a lot closer than Enjolras had been anticipating.

“They really are lost without you, aren’t they?” He says, an amused but affectionate smile playing on his lips.

“Yeah, poor things.” Enjolras replies, hardly aware of the words. He’s watching Grantaire. If he reached out, he could run his fingers through those dye-stained, inky curls. He swallows. “I should, erm -”

“No, yeah, you should get back to them.” Grantaire interrupts, leaning back in his chair, much to Enjolras’ regret.

“Thank you for today.” He says, when he stands, and Grantaire looks up at him, and his expression is one of guarded delight.

“You’re welcome.” He says quietly. “Any time.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” And then again, more certain. “Yeah. I’ll see you, Enjolras.”

And Enjolras leaves. For some reason, he can’t quite shake the memory of his name on Grantaire’s lips.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to have this up yesterday, sorry!

Before the month is out, he has met Grantaire four more times at the Musain, and sees him at every meeting of Les Amis (a shorthand of the name they have given themselves). They text incessantly when they're not together, and when Enjolras is caught smiling stupidly down at his phone and kicked out of class, he drops in on Grantaire and Feuilly at the Corinthe. The last time they argued, it was about the merits and failures of the Harry Potter universe, and it’s almost giddying, how fast their relationship has evolved from near enmity to this, whatever _this_ is. Enjolras feels sometimes like they’re running full-pelt towards the precipice of a cliff.  
  
It’s another Friday, two days before a protest they have been preparing for for weeks, a demonstration against budget cuts in public schools and Planned Parenthood that are designed to harm no-one but the working class, and they’re at the Corinthe. Enjolras has hardly slept with all the work that has gone into planning, much to Combeferre’s concern. He’s running on less-than full, and has been all week, and his head has been pounding for days, despite the painkillers he chokes down, and he grinds his teeth and mourns the fact that Combeferre is working an extra shift at the hospital tonight. Cosette has told him that there will be police at the protest tomorrow, information courtesy of her father's indefatigable stalker, and he is worrying. About Bahorel, who doesn't know when to hold his tongue or his punches. About little Gavroche, just 14, whose involvement Éponine hasn't been able to prevent. About Marius, who hasn't ever seen a riot before. About all of them, because they are all the family he has anymore, and he would not risk any of them, if they let him choose. And then there is Grantaire. Grantaire who buys him tea and sits opposite him reading and does his utmost not to disturb him in the slightest, but whose thoughts Enjolras couldn't avoid if he tried.

_He’s killing himself_ , Grantaire thinks, and there’s a tone of sadness, of mourning that runs deep. Enjolras recoils, but can’t quite pull away. _He’s killing himself over this and it won’t matter at all, nothing they do or say, any of them, but he **believes** it. He believes he can change it and when he stops believing that, the world will end, and I will be glad. What will the world matter to me, if he doesn’t believe anymore?_

Enjolras doesn’t want this - can’t deal with it, on top of everything else, because Grantaire’s thoughts frighten him. He sees the hopelessness and the hurt and the careful, careful cynicism, and they do not sway him, but the underlying truth of Grantaire’s mind, the fact at the very core of his being, the way his thoughts sound when he thinks of Enjolras’ name... Of that, he is afraid. The nebulous strands of feeling that Grantaire never puts a name to, that Enjolras has stumbled upon now, an accident amongst the unavoidable noise of the cafe. His mind revolts. He stands abruptly, and shocks Grantaire out of his thoughts.

The artist turns to him with a frown of concern and asks, “What’s wrong?”

And Enjolras doesn’t know, except the world is too loud and too big and too _much_ , all of a sudden. His head bursts into pain and shooting stars, and he shakes his head mutely and knows his eyes are wide and panicked when Grantaire’s frown deepens and he too, stands like he’s waiting for Enjolras to collapse, and Enjolras isn’t sure he won’t, but he pulls back from Grantaire’s reach anyway and Grantaire recoils like he’s been slapped. The patrons of the cafe _think_ , and it’s distracting and overwhelming and agonising and he needs to _breathe_.

“I - I have to go.” He says, and stumbles getting past his chair, and Grantaire calls after him but he's gone.

*

The door of the apartment all but slams open and he can't even close it properly behind him. Courfeyrac and Combeferre look up at his entrance from the sofa where they appear to be going through Combeferre’ first aid kit, surprise quickly settling into concern, and he can do nothing to assuage their consternation because the pain in his head is making it impossible and the rabbit-fast beat of his heart drives everything else out. He staggers to the kitchen, and has to steady himself against the countertop so that he doesn't fall. His hands shake as he pours a glass of water for himself, and he slides down to the floor, knees pulled against his chest. His breaths sound ragged, and black spots threaten his vision.

"Enjolras? Enjolras, what happened?" He registers Combeferre’s serious frown, and the words he says, but he can't respond. Combeferre turns his attention elsewhere. "Courfeyrac, in my bag, there's a bottle of pills marked codeine, bring it out here now please."  

Courfeyrac practically sprints to obey, and if Enjolras could think past the storm in his skull, he’d feel guilty about worrying them so badly. He swallows the pills that Courfeyrac presses into his hand blindly with a drink of water, and he doesn’t feel better at all, but he makes an effort to open his eyes, and sees their worried faces hovering above him. Combeferre reaches out a tendril of thought to brush against the open wound of Enjolras' mind soothingly, blessedly cool and comforting, and Courfeyrac helps him stand.

"Sorry." He mutters, squinting against the pain.

"Don't be stupid." Courfeyrac responds instantly. Combeferre still has his doctor's frown on.

"What happened, Enjolras?"

Enjolras doesn’t know how to answer him.

"I was in the Corinthe with Grantaire and I just... I just had to get out. My head... It's never been this bad before." He says.

"What tipped it?" Combeferre asks.

A wave of panic and something else he can’t put a name to washes over him. He thinks quickly.

"It was... Something Grantaire was thinking. I remember that I was worrying about Sunday, and I couldn't hold back his thoughts and something in there just... I don't know. I had to get out." He repeats, and hopes that’s enough.

"Enjolras, you shouldn't be out there alone when you're like this." Courfeyrac reprimands him. "What if you'd collapsed? We might not have found you..."

His voice trails off, and Enjolras can hear him evaluating the way Enjolras looks, and deciding that it's a problem that can wait. He knows he must be pale and clammy, and he's been watching the dark shadows under his eyes form for days, so he doesn't hold Courfeyrac's response against him.

"You need to rest." Combeferre's voice is soft, but decisive. Enjolras knows arguing would be futile, and he's half-grateful, because he has never been so exhausted or so afraid in all his life. Combeferre's thoughts are already acting like a lullaby, wrapping around Enjolras' consciousness, woozy from the codeine, and lulling him unwittingly into sleep. He lets Courfeyrac manhandle him into his bedroom, but insists on undressing himself.

He is down to his shirt and jeans when he gives up, and sleep enfolds him.

*

He wakes up feeling like he's slept forever. The remainder of last night's headache lingers like a hangover, but he can cope, and his stomach churns when he thinks of Grantaire, but he controls himself. He reaches out sleepily with his mind, and he can sense Combeferre and Courfeyrac at the living room table, eating leftover takeout for dinner. He drags himself up onto his elbows to check the glowing green digits of his alarm clock, which tell him he's been asleep for the whole day. Groaning, he forces himself to get up and leave the room.

The minute he enters the living room, Courfeyrac and Combeferre both stand, Courfeyrac smiling wide and relieved.

"There's our sleeping beauty." He says, and Enjolras smiles tiredly, running a hand through his mussed curls.

"How're you feeling?" Combeferre asks, and Enjolras answers as truthfully as he can.

"Headache's manageable. I am a little hungry, though."

And Combeferre grins slightly.

"There's some left in the fridge, still. I'm glad you're feeling better."

"Yeah, you really had us worried, Chief." Courfeyrac says, around a mouth of noodles.

"Won't happen again." Enjolras promises on his way to the kitchen.

"I don't believe that for a second." Courfeyrac replies, and Enjolras' smile widens.

"Grantaire called. Twice." As Combeferre speaks, Enjolras' spine stiffens and his smile fades.  "He wanted to know if you were okay. You’ve probably got a couple of messages, too."

"What did you tell him?" He asks, turning, and desperately hoping he sounds casual. Combeferre shrugs.

"I told him you were just stressed. He didn't believe me and wanted to come and check up on you, but Courfeyrac managed to dissuade him."

"I don't want to know." Enjolras says, before Courfeyrac can elaborate.

"Spoilsport." He grumbles, and then brightens, a mischievous little smile lighting his face. "So, what's going on there, Enjolras? Are you dating?"

To his horror, Enjolras can feel a blush colouring his cheeks even as his heart quickens and flips.

"Don't be ridiculous." He mutters, quickly, and Courfeyrac's grin gets bigger.

"Ridiculous, am I? Well - "

Enjolras retreats quickly, his plate stacked high with leftovers, before Courfeyrac can finish. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The protest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short one today guys, sorry 'bout that. Also, to anyone who's confused, Enjolras has Bossuet's number on his arm because Bossuet is the closest thing they have to a legitimate lawyer.

Sunday dawns, and for once it's not physically painful for Enjolras to drag himself out of bed early. He has Bossuet's number sharpied on the inside of his forearm, just in case, and he is practically vibrating in the passenger seat as Combeferre drives them to the town hall where the protest will be held. As promised, there is a heavy police presence around the square, but Enjolras' worries take a backseat, now that he is here. There is nothing but the latest issue, the next fight, and it is soothing. Feuilly, Jehan, Bahorel are already there, waiting, and Éponine arrives barely ten minutes after them, Gavroche in tow. By the time everything is set up - banners distributed and Gavroche standing with Courfeyrac on the street corner giving out pamphlets, all of Les Amis are present (aside from one noticeable absence, and no, he wasn't waiting for Grantaire specifically), and a small crowd has amassed. At a nod from Combeferre, Enjolras take his place at the top of the town hall steps, and starts to speak.

This is what he was made for. He reels his voice out over the crowd like a fishing line, pulling in bystanders and even making the police stand up and listen. His voice is like an enchantment, starting slow, and building, endlessly. He  conducts the mass of people from apathy into righteous anger, into a weapon of public outcry, and he feeds off their energy until it is not hard to imagine him glowing, arms flung out in passion like wings, red jacket and golden sun setting him aflame, making him a phoenix.

"- and who suffers, while the fat cats sit at the top of the pyramid and leech off of our backs? Who suffers with children they can't feed, can't clothe, children they can't afford to educate? It's not the black suits sitting cosy in their private mansions, citizens. It's you and me!"

Even Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who have witnessed this a thousand times, are pulled irresistibly into Enjolras' web, finding themselves applauding his every word, stomping their feet and crying out against those that would deny them their justice.

*

(Grantaire doesn't want to go, but when Feuilly texts to ask if he'll be there, he remembers Enjolras with wide eyes and shaking hands, and he can't stop himself.)

*

The change comes very suddenly. Enjolras has churned the crowd into a tide of tightly-wound rage, and the police shift uneasily from the barricade they form around the press of bodies. An officer with a mean-looking face is the first one to give way. The first burst of pepper spray into the face of a protester is like a match thrown onto a flame, and all of a sudden, it's not a crowd anymore.  
  
It's a mob.

Enjolras loses sight of his friends in the crush of bodies, is pulled to and fro by grasping angry hands hungering for justice and for change. He can't resist the tug and heave of the mob, and his feet go out from under him as the ocean of furious men and women pulls back and pushes forward. He stumbles, hits the ground, feels his hands ground into the concrete by oblivious feet, his ribs crowded and bruised by raging boots. And without warning, a hand fisted in his jacket, heaving him upright and then fastening around his wrist and pulling him free of the stampede. A wash of saltwater, and he recognises Grantaire's dark head before him, half-dragging him towards a side street where the others are waiting with the cars.

They break free of the mass, and Joly and Combeferre descend upon them instantly, checking them over for bruises and scrapes. Grantaire throws away his wrist without looking at him, and Enjolras’ stomach overturns.

“Grantaire?” He tries to ask, but Grantaire has already shaken Joly off and stalked away to Feuilly’s car, is filling the last seat. Enjolras hears his thoughts, a stinging tirade against him.

_He's going to get himself killed, what the hell is he thinking, showing up to this when he was seconds away from collapsing when I last saw him,_

and the other half,

_Why didn't he want to see me what did I do where did I fuck up was it my fault?_

He mutters “drive,” before he slams the door shut, and the little car is soon out of sight. Enjolras is too confused and hurt to resist much when Courfeyrac and Combeferre crowd him into their car, although he does protest as soon as he realises. Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta load up into their car, with a promise to get in touch tomorrow, when everything’s settled again. Combeferre informs him in a tone that broaches no argument that he can’t be caught at another riot, not with his record, and he can’t deny the truth in that, but he’s not happy about it. Of course, it would be easier to think of a decent argument against Combeferre’s logic if he wasn’t so distracted by the way Grantaire had pushed him away. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took a little longer to get up. School's been pretty hectic. I hope it's worth the wait?

It’s two am, and he can’t sleep. He can’t sleep, and he knows why, and it’s the queasiness in his stomach and the weight of unhappiness whenever he thinks about Grantaire.

He thinks about Grantaire a lot.

It’s not even a new development, he realises. Grantaire has been on his mind for a while. Grantaire has carved himself a space inside of Enjolras, and he is bereft of it, now, and conscious of it in a way he never thought he would be. Grantaire has inched under Enjolras’ skin, bedded down there and then taken off but left his imprint.

Enjolras realises very abruptly that he might be in love.

It’s a very small step from there to pulling on his shoes and jacket and _sprinting_ the few blocks to Grantaire’s apartment. He’s sure the slam of the door on his way out wakes Combeferre and Courfeyrac but he doesn’t care. He’s in _love_.

The strange thing is the familiarity the feeling has. He has never been in love before, he knows, but tearing through the streets on his way to Grantaire's flat, he is on fire, and that is nothing new. He feels the same enduring conviction in his chest that fills him when he is at a rally. It is a burning, unshakeable sensation deep under his skin, and when he arrives panting before Grantaire's door, it consumes him.

Grantaire takes too long to answer. Enjolras feels ready to burst, like balloons are swelling under his ribs, like there are birds waiting to fly from his throat when he opens his mouth, and when Grantaire finally does appear, confused and bed-messy and pyjama-clad and not entirely sober, he beams.

“What do you want, Enjolras?” Grantaire asks and Enjolras wants to smooth out the creases of his frown, and the weariness of his voice. He wants to kiss away his sadness. He doesn’t know how to answer, because he wants everything. He wants to feel every aching, trembling, hummingbird beat of Grantaire in his chest. Enjolras doesn’t know what to reply, because all he wants is everything contained by the word, _‘more’_.

But the silence expands, and Enjolras has to do something, has to tell Grantaire that somehow he has become a fixture in Enjolras’ world, a central point, a necessity, but the words, for once, are impossible to find.

So he kisses him.

Enjolras hasn’t kissed a lot of people, but kissing Grantaire tells him he doesn’t want to. Kissing Grantaire makes him realise that he never wants to kiss anyone else ever again. He wants Grantaire to have all of his kisses.

Except Grantaire is pulling away. His eyes stay closed and his brow is furrowed like he’s trying to commit Enjolras’ taste to memory, like increasing the space between their lips is the hardest thing he’s ever done, the hardest thing he’ll ever have to do.

“Enjolras.” He says, and his voice is soft. Enjolras wishes he’d open his eyes (his eyes which are bright, hydrangea blue, which Enjolras wants to drown in). “Don’t.”

And Enjolras hits the ground. He looks at Grantaire, uncomprehending, because Grantaire wanted this.

“I don’t know if you think you need to apologise, or that you owe me or you want to fix me, but just - don't. I can’t - I don’t want that for you.” And he opens his eyes, and he is resignation and he is spiralling downwards, mourning the loss of Enjolras even as he stands before him.

Enjolras’ heart breaks, because Grantaire doesn’t _see_.

“Grantaire.” He says, and his smile returns, small and honest, and the words float on his tongue like cotton candy. “I love you.”

And the way Grantaire blinks his surprise is almost comical. He clears his throat.

“What was that?” He asks, and Enjolras’ smile widens to a full-blown grin.

“I _said_ , I love you.” And Grantaire just looks at him, so he goes on. “I’m in love with you. Do you want it in another language? Shall I write it down? Tell me how to say it so you’ll believe me, Grantaire, because I am _wild_ with how much I love you.”    

Grantaire says nothing, but his eyes are wide and hopeful as he looks into Enjolras' and, slowly, ever so slowly, like he's asking permission, he leans in, and brings their lips together. Grantaire tastes exactly like he smells, and Enjolras drinks him in, tangles his fingers into Grantaire’s hair and kisses him until they have to break away to catch their breath.

“You love me?” Grantaire says carefully, and Enjolras threads their fingers together.

“I love you.” He confirms, smiling.

“I love you, too.” Grantaire says it like it’s a secret, and Enjolras kisses him again.

When they pull apart, Grantaire is smiling, too, and Enjolras is giddy.

“It’s two am.” He says, and Grantaire laughs softly, and it’s one of Enjolras’ favourite sounds.

“Yeah. Do you wanna come in?”

Enjolras could outshine the sun with his answering grin.

*

("GrantaireGrantaire _Grantaire_ -"

In Grantaire's bedroom, his name is spilt like a litany from Enjolras' lips, gasped between panting breaths, and he chases the sounds with his mouth, burning a trail over Enjolras' skin, and all the while Enjolras can hear the wonderments pouring out of his head.

He wonders if it's possible to fall in love with the same person twice.)  
  
*


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I'll warn you now that this is a pretty fluffy chapter.

Enjolras wakes up gradually, bit by bit. Grantaire is thinking about him. Grantaire’s thoughts are in his head, and he smiles and rolls on his side to bury himself in Grantaire’s naked chest, breathing in the scent of his skin. Their legs are braided together, and his senses are full of Grantaire, and he thinks the world can go past them, and he won’t mind as long as they stay like this, with Grantaire's fingers tracing invisible patterns across his skin.

Of course, as he thinks that, Grantaire’s phone starts buzzing an alarm.

He groans into Grantaire’s skin, and tries to curl himself up into his torso, even though he is smaller, and Grantaire chuckles, and reaches to turn off his phone (his alarm tone is Courfeyrac singing “Don’t Stop Believing” along with the Glee soundtrack. Enjolras doesn’t ask.).

He kisses Enjolras’ hair, and Enjolras groans again, and pulls the covers over his head.

“Grantaire, why are you awake?” He says, and his voice is muffled against Grantaire’s collarbone.

“I have class. Good morning, by the way.”

“Good morning. I love you.” Enjolras responds, adding the last casually, like it’s not a thrill to say it out loud every time he does. “Why do you have class so early?”

“We artists have to suffer for our work. And besides, it’s ten o’clock, Enjolras. It’s hardly early.”

This brings forth the loudest groan yet, and Grantaire laughs quietly as he sits up, dislodging Enjolras.

“Not all of us got kicked out of our morning classes within the first month, you know.” He says, amusement colouring his tone.

Enjolras’ reply is unintelligible beneath the duvet, and when Grantaire lifts it off of him, he glowers sleepily.

“Don’t go.” He suggests, and he can hear the temptation in Grantaire’s thoughts, so he presses his advantage, kissing every inch of Grantaire he can reach.

“Enjolras…” Grantaire says, all reluctance. “I have to get up. If I could stay in bed with you all day,” he pauses, and casts his eyes over Enjolras reclining in his bed, “believe me, I would, but this class is important.”

Enjolras sighs.

“Fine.” He says. “But I’m staying. Some inconsiderate artist kept me up all night.”

Grantaire blushes, so he counts that as a victory.

“Stay, then.” Grantaire says quietly. “Be here when I get home, okay?”

And Enjolras can see that they’re not joking anymore, so he nods as seriously as he can. Grantaire smiles again, and leans in to kiss him before he stands to get ready. Enjolras watches him from the bed, and when he’s about to leave, he calls out,

“You didn’t say it back.”

And Grantaire pauses, turns, and kisses him until they’re breathless.

“I love you.” He says, and then leaves properly. Enjolras listens to his thoughts grow fainter as he moves farther away, and when he can’t hear them anymore, he sighs, turns over, and goes back to sleep, warm and content and light-hearted, and feeling whole in a way he hasn’t felt before.

*

(Jehan decides to visit a while after Grantaire leaves. He enters the flat with the spare key he'd had made after the disastrous drunken summer when Enjolras had dyed red the tips of his hair, and does the routine check of his bedroom for stashed alcohol. Or at least, he tries to. His attempts are derailed somewhat when he opens Grantaire's bedroom door to see a mass of beautifully sleep-mussed, rich honey curls fanning across Grantaire's pillow, and a bare shoulder peeking out from under the covers, golden freckles dotted like stars across milky skin.

He retreats silently, robotically, unwilling to do anything to fracture the moment, and shuts the door carefully behind him. He pulls out his phone.

**TO: R**

_Please tell me you're not doing that thing where you sleep with people who look like Enjolras again. XxXxX_

His heart is thundering and he crosses his fingers and hopes his guess is right.

**FROM: R**

_No need :)_

Of course, Jehan will deny it later, but he almost squeals aloud at the idea of the two of them finally getting together.

**TO: R**

_I'm so happy for you both. XxXxX_

He leaves the apartment as quietly as he'd entered, leaving Enjolras to his sleep.)

*

Enjolras gets up a couple of hours later, hungry, and rolls out of the bed. He looks around for his clothes on the floor but still bleary from sleep, shrugs and pulls on Grantaire's underwear and one of his baggy shirts instead. He inhales the scent of the soft, well-loved fabric as it slips over his head, and smiles secretly to himself when he Grantaire's smell engulfs him.

The kitchen is well-stocked thankfully, and he pours himself a bowl of cereal. He settles into the sofa to eat it, and turns on the news. That's how Grantaire finds him, when he returns, and his smile is fond and relieved and very, very wide, and he leans over Enjolras and kisses him before he's even taken his shoes off.

"How was class?" Enjolras asks against his lips.

"Mediocre. I like your shirt." He kisses Enjolras' jaw. "It suits you."

"Thanks, it's my boyfriend's." Enjolras says, and doesn't miss the thrill of delight that runs through Grantaire's thoughts at the word, 'boyfriend'.

"Really?" He says, and as he speaks his lips find new territory on Enjolras' neck. It's very nice. "Any idea when your boyfriend will be home?"

“I don’t know.” Enjolras tilts his head back to allow Grantaire better access as he all but straddles him. “He left earlier for some kind of art class.”

“Mm,” Grantaire hums against his shoulder, bare where his shirt has slipped. “He must be an idiot. No one in their right mind could leave you.”

He pulls back smiling and Enjolras wonders if he’s ever been happier.

“Hello.” He says.

“Hello.” Grantaire echoes, and then slumps down in the seat next to Enjolras. Enjolras leans back into him, and he feels almost like he’s glowing when Grantaire opens his arms and wraps them around him.

“So how was your day?” He asks, and the vibrations of his voice shake through Enjolras’ back, where it’s pressed to his chest.

“It was okay. I missed you.”

Silence from Grantaire, and Enjolras wants to turn around and see his expression, but he’s comfortable in the nest of his arms.

“You did?” Grantaire asks quietly, and Enjolras can hear that layer in his voice again, like he can’t quite bring himself to believe it. This time, he does turn, craning his neck to see as much of Grantaire’s face as possible.

“Yeah, I did.” He promises, and Grantaire’s smile is awe and gentlesness, and Enjolras kisses him lightly.

“I missed you, too.” Grantaire says. “I always miss you.”

“I’m right here.” Enjolras informs him softly, and his smile grows, and he leans forward and their noses brush together as he whispers,  
  
“I know.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoy this chapter?
> 
>  
> 
> Not actually sure about it myself.

"I should go." Enjolras says reluctantly, but he's been thinking the same thing for hours and he _really_ doesn't want to do the right thing, for once. Grantaire is warm and loving and most of all, Grantaire, and he's tracing a swirl on his forearm and looking like Christmas Eve from where Enjolras is all but lying in his lap.

"You should not." Grantaire replies, and he replaces his fingers with his mouth and presses a kiss to Enjolras' wrist.

And yeah, there's that, too.

He doesn't want to leave in the slightest, doesn't want to go where Grantaire isn't, but he thinks it would be much easier to do it regardless of what he wants if Grantaire didn't want the same thing.

He sighs, imagining Combeferre and Courfeyrac waiting for him, not knowing whether to be worried or not.

"They'll be missing me."

" _I'll_ be missing you."

"Grantaire -"

"Enjolras," Grantaire mimics. "I'm kidding. I'm not going to make you stay."

He smiles but it's sad, somehow, and Enjolras frowns.

"I want to stay, you know." He reminds him, but the smile doesn't change.

"I know. But you're right, they'll be waiting." He releases Enjolras' arm and Enjolras finds himself missing his touch.

"Go." He says, and Enjolras stands unwillingly. He's wearing the clothes he'd abandoned to Grantaire's floor last night, and wishing they could have stayed there, on the floor, while he and Grantaire stayed in the bed. He starts walking to the door, but he holds Grantaire's hand and trails him behind because he doesn't want to let go until they have to.

When he's standing in the doorway, he turns back and Grantaire looks at him with that strange melancholy smile, and Enjolras needs to know how to make it better.

He dips into Grantaire's mind like it's nothing, and immediately, the waves crash around him.

_He's going to leave and he's not going to come back._ Enjolras flinches at the coldness of Grantaire's thoughts. His heart aches. _You didn't deserve him anyway, not even for one night_ , the thoughts continue, and Enjolras' eyes are wide and he kisses Grantaire like it's the last thing he'll do, wrapping both arms around his neck and holding him as close as he can as if that alone can change Grantaire's mind.

"I love you." He says, and he wants Grantaire to know he means it. "I love you, and I'll see you tomorrow."

And the sadness still lurks in the corners of Grantaire's eyes, but his smile, however small, is genuine when he replies,

"I love you, too, Enjolras."

*

He can hear Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s thoughts from the hallway, and sighs in resignation, because of course they’re waiting for him. Of course they know. He opens the door with the air of someone facing a firing squad, and Courfeyrac throws himself on him before he can make it through the doorway. He only has time to steady himself before he is hit with a double barrage of speech and thought.

“Enjolras I am so happy you finally worked it out I am so proud of you. And you have no idea how much money people are gonna owe me because of this. Oh my god I have to make cake immediately - ”

Enjolras looks beseechingly at Combeferre over Courfeyrac’s shoulder.

“Let him breathe, Courf.” Combeferre chides from the sofa, and Courfeyrac obliges, loosening his embrace a little. He’s beaming as he looks at Enjolras.

“Sorry.” He says. “I’m just - I'm really happy for you.”

And it’s true. His thoughts run electric with pure, selfless delight, and his cheeks are apple-red and stretched by his widest smile.

“Thanks, Courf.” Enjolras says, and it's softly spoken and entirely sincere. He hadn’t ever doubted his friend’s support, but Courfeyrac’s whole-hearted endorsement of whatever he has started with Grantaire makes his heart swell. Courfeyrac understands. He nods once, and then relinquishes his hold so that Enjolras can actually step into the apartment, and he looks at Combeferre and realises he’s nervous. His hands find themselves clenched tight into fists, white-knuckled in suspense, and when Combeferre smiles, he’s more relieved than he could have ever imagined. He hadn’t realised, but worrying about Combeferre’s approval had been a weight on his heart, a blip of imperfection in the perfect happiness of the past two days, and now it is gone, and Enjolras’ knees go weak with relief.

He stumbles out of his shoes and to Combeferre's side, and curls into the sofa next to him, and Combeferre's arm goes round his shoulder easily, automatically. Courfeyrac settles on his other side and slings his arm around his waist, and the ‘Firefly’ boxset they were watching when he came in plays out on-screen until it’s dark. Autumn rattles the street outside, but their apartment is warm and light. This is Enjolras’ family, at its core, lounging on this sofa in this apartment, Courfeyrac's head on his shoulder and his head on Combeferre's, and Combeferre stroking his hair absently while he watches the screen, and Courfeyrac running circles around Enjolras' open palm with the tip of his finger. It's comfort and familiarity, and it's different from the way Grantaire makes him feel but it's just as important.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac met him when they were getting ready to face the world, and he was fifteen and angry, glowering and bloody-nosed, and wanted to tear out all of the pins that held the world in place. It was the two of them who picked him up from his parents’ house on the night after the wall-shaking fight on his eighteenth birthday. They are his brothers in all of the ways that count, and Enjolras owes them everything.

*

(The last episode has ended, and Courfeyrac is asleep on the sofa next to them, snoring lightly.  
  
 _You know you have to tell him, now,_ Combeferre thinks, and Enjolras sighs.

“Yeah, I know.”)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I realise a lot of you have been waiting for this chapter in particular and I'm sorry if it doesn't live up to your expectations.

Enjolras wakes up on the sofa, his leg sandwiched underneath Courfeyrac and just barely regaining feeling.

Combeferre is in the kitchen, and the smell of almost-done cookies floats through to him. He eases out from under Courfeyrac as carefully as he can, and winces as he puts weight onto his dead leg. Over the breakfast bar, Combeferre smiles at him.

_Morning_ , he thinks, and Enjolras nods, returning the expression. He limps on his one good leg and pulls himself up to the breakfast bar, and Combeferre slides him a mug of warm coffee.

“You’re a saint.” Enjolras mutters, and Combeferre shrugs.

“It’s been said.” He replies. “Are you meeting R today?”

Enjolras struggles to contain the flush in his cheeks.

“Yeah.” He says quietly.

“Okay.” Combeferre says, and then turns to pull the tray of cookies out of the oven. Behind Enjolras, Courfeyrac stirs. “And will you tell him?”

“I have to.”

Combeferre’s expression is sympathetic as he hands Enjolras one of the fresh-baked goods on a plate.

“How do you think he’ll take it?”

“Honestly? I don’t know. He’s hard to predict.” Enjolras speaks with his brow furrowed, setting the plate on the counter, and then startles when Courfeyrac suddenly appears and slings an arm over his shoulders as he hops onto the stool beside him.

“Good morning, Gentlemen. How are we today?” He says, and, catching sight of the tray cooling next to the sink, looks calculatingly at Combeferre. “Combeferre, light of my life, I hope you slept well?.”

Combeferre raises an eyebrow.

“I would’ve slept better if you didn’t snore so loudly. ”

Courfeyrac acts as though he hasn’t spoken.   
  
“I couldn’t help but notice the delicious snacks you have secreted in our kitchen.” He says. “Might they be considered public property?”

“If by public, you mean yours? No.” Combeferre says.

“But ‘Ferreeeeeeee,” Courfeyrac wheedles, “Aren’t you a believer in charity?”

“Charity, yes. Giving you free breakfast? Not so much.”

Courfeyrac pouts, and looks imploringly at Enjolras.

“Leave me out of this, I got mine.” He says, amused, and Courfeyrac's pout becomes more prominent.

“Well I can see who’s the favourite in this family.” Courfeyrac sniffs, and Combeferre rolls his eyes.

“Enjolras gets one because he’s going out. You can wait.”

Courfeyrac’s attitude changes so abruptly it’s like someone has flipped a switch. He turns to Enjolras with an ominous smirk on his face.

“Oooooooooooh, Enjolras is going out? Where, exactly, is _out_ , Chief? And who is the lucky fella accompanying you on your day 'out'? Might it be our very own cynical friend, Grantaire?”

“Thanks, ‘Ferre.” Enjolras says dryly, and Combeferre smiles innocently.

“I’m going to shower.” Enjolras announces in an attempt to drown out Courfeyrac, who has started to sing “Enjolras and Grantaire sittin’ in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G,” loudly and repetitively. The minute Enjolras turns his back, he steals his cookie, and Combeferre tuts disapprovingly.

*

As he dresses, he grabs his phone and shoots off a text to Grantaire asking him to meet in the Musain. It buzzes Grantaire’s reply a few minutes later, and Enjolras can’t stop grinning just at the kiss he signs it with.

Courfeyrac wolf-whistles as he exits his bedroom, and Enjolras laughs as Combeferre uses it as an excuse to cuff him over the back of the head.

“I’ll see you later.” He says as he opens the door. Their goodbyes follow him out.

*

Enjolras will always prefer the Corinthe, he thinks, but there’s no denying that the Musain is special, now. Grantaire is already there, waiting, when he walks through the door, at the table that he can’t help but label as ‘theirs’, but his smile when he notices Enjolras is strained.

“Hey.” Enjolras says, as he sits down, frowning his concern. “What’s wrong?”

Grantaire takes a deep breath, like he’s steeling himself.

“Look, Enjolras if you regret what we did, that’s fine, I understand, but can we not have the conversation here?”

Enjolras blinks at him. He looks like he's waiting to be hanged. His fingers fiddle with a packet of sugar, quick, nervous movements. He doesn't meet Enjolras' eyes.

“...What?” Enjolras asks, and Grantaire's expression shifts until he looks up, as confused as Enjolras feels.

“That’s what you were gonna say, right? I’m sorry, but it was a mistake, hope we can still be friends?”

“No!” Enjolras says, and his heart seizes up, because is that what Grantaire _wants?_ He realises he could find out, but he’s done with the dishonesty. If he’s in Grantaire’s thoughts from now on, it’s because Grantaire wants him there. “Why would you think that?”

Grantaire’s surprise is honestly kind of hurtful.

“That’s _not_ what you wanted to meet for?” He confirms slowly.

“Of course not!” And Enjolras is aware that his voice has raised in pitch. “Grantaire, _I love you_."

“Well shit.” Grantaire says, and well, _yeah_ , that’ll cover it. “I’m sorry, I just assumed because… well, you’re _you_ , and I’m just kind of… me.”

“You’re ridiculous, is what you are.” Enjolras tells him, and he smiles, weakly.

“Yeah, I guess I am.” He agrees. “Sorry.”

He straightens up, takes a deep breath, and then captures Enjolras’ hand where it lays on the table between them in his own.

“You’re freezing.” He comments, re-establishing normalcy, and Enjolras honestly hadn’t noticed.

“It’s cold.” He says lamely, but Grantaire smiles anyway.

“So, if you aren’t here to break my heart, what did you want?”

And it would have been a lot easier to answer if Grantaire hadn’t thrown him off-course so badly.

“I wanted to tell you something.” He begins, and Grantaire, now reassured that Enjolras has no intention of dumping him in the middle of the crowded cafe, looks at him with wide, expectant eyes. The way he’s rubbing warmth back into Enjolras’ hand is very distracting.

“I, erm.” He pauses, stalls, looks down at his lap and grits his teeth. “I can, erm.”

It’s absurd, and it’s going to sound absurd, and Grantaire will never be able to trust him again, and _why did Combeferre not tell him it would be this hard?_

“You can tell me, Enjolras.” Grantaire promises quietly, and Enjolras exhales sharply. It almost sounds like laughter.

“I can read minds.” He says, and it comes out rushed, all in one breath, and he can only look Grantaire in the eye after he’s said it.

Now it is Grantaire’s turn to blink. Enjolras watches him, and every second of expectant silence is agony, so he elaborates, and there's an edge of panic to his rushed voice because there's no way Grantaire will stay, not after this.

“I’ve been able to do it for as long as I can remember, maybe before, and I needed to tell you, because you deserve to know that you’re dating a freak of nature, and - ”

Grantaire cuts him off before he can run out of breath.

“You can read minds?” He repeats, and Enjolras nods, holding his breath. Grantaire considers him.

“You’re not joking.” He observes, and Enjolras shakes his head, still not daring to breathe.

“Can you read my mind?” At Enjolras’ nod, he continues, “ _Have_ you read my mind? Before?”

All of the air rushes out of Enjolras’ lungs.

“Yes.” He admits, and his voice is tiny, and he looks down at their hands. The silence hangs over his head like a guillotine blade. He’s waiting for Grantaire to start yelling, to call him a freak or a liar or to just leave, but he doesn’t know what he’ll do, once that happens.

Grantaire kisses him, instead.

“Enjolras.” He says, and Enjolras has to meet his eyes. “What am I thinking, now?”

Enjolras shakes his head quickly.

“I don’t - ”

Grantaire interrupts him again.

“Enjolras.” He repeats firmly. “What am I thinking?”

And Enjolras closes his eyes, and, hesitantly, sinks into the now-familiar landscape of Grantaire’s mind.

All across it, there are three words, the most important words, plastered over countless memories and images of them, both real and imagined, and Enjolras’ tightens his grip on Grantaire’s hand reflexively because it’s overwhelming, how much Grantaire loves him.

When he opens his eyes, Grantaire is watching him. Grantaire is smiling nervously.

"It's okay." He says softly, and Enjolras leans across the table and kisses him for all he’s worth.

“I love you.” He tells Grantaire’s mouth.

“I love you, too. Freak of nature or not.”

And well, Enjolras has to kiss him again, for that.  
  
*

Afterwards, they go to Grantaire's apartment, because it's the only sensible option, and when Grantaire comes inside him, crying his name, it's wonderful, it's superlative, it's incredible, and Grantaire is a flood, sweeping over Enjolras' body and into his mind and drowning him.

They lie spent afterwards, wrapped in Grantaire's duvet, and Enjolras is curled around Grantaire's back and kissing a soft trail along his shoulder.

"What's it like?"

Grantaire’s voice is a boat, bobbing curiously on the shores of their contented quiet, and Enjolras pauses in the act of decorating his shoulder blade with kisses.

“Hm?” He hums mindlessly.

“What’s it like?” Grantaire repeats, and Enjolras frowns.

“What’s what like?” He asks.

“Reading minds. What’s it like?”

Enjolras thinks about it for a little while, and Grantaire shifts in his arms so that they're facing each other.

"It's inconvenient." He says, finally. "And the migraines will kill you."

Grantaire frowns sympathetically.

"It's mostly just strange."

"Strange how?"

"Everyone's thoughts are different." He explains.

"Tell me." Grantaire requests.

"What do you want to know?" Enjolras asks.

"Everything. Tell me about everyone we know."

So Enjolras does. Grantaire listens attentively as he attempts to convey the nuances of their friends' mental voices, only interrupting once or twice.

"Mint?"

Enjolras nods.

"Bossuet sounds like mint." Grantaire confirms, eyebrows raised doubtfully.

"Yes."

"Really? _Mint?_ "

"Yes!" Enjolras repeats, amused.

Grantaire mulls this over.

"Fine. What about Joly?"

Enjolras considers, and Grantaire waits patiently.

"He's like a flight of sparrows." Enjolras decides finally, and Grantaire shakes his head.

"You're making this up." He accuses. Enjolras raises an eyebrow.

"Why would I bother to make this up." He says, and Grantaire shrugs, conceding the point.

"Tell me about 'Chetta, then." He says, and Enjolras rolls his eyes before continuing.

"Candlelight."

"I can kind of see that one."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Now Cosette."

"Icing sugar."

"Because she's so sweet, right?"

"Because she always makes everything else sweet _er_."

There's silence for a moment, and Enjolras watches Grantaire look thoughtfully at their joined hands, bridging the space between them.  

"And me?" He asks eventually, quietly.

"You?"

"What are my thoughts like?"

"You are the sea." Enjolras tells him simply, and Grantaire looks at him with an expression Enjolras can't even describe.

(There's not much talking, after that.)

*

( **FROM: Combeferre**

**13:38**

_Guessing it went well?_

**TO: Combeferre**

**14:06**

_Yeah. See you at Jehan's poetry thing tonight?_

**FROM: Combeferre**

**14:10**

_Count on it._ )

* 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the rating on this chapter is a little higher than the others I guess. Just so you're warned. It's not a super-important chapter so if that makes you uncomfortable you can just skip it and whatever happens next will still make sense.
> 
> Also I'm really sorry, I meant to have this up yesterday but I was busy.

About twice a month, Jehan attends these poetry slams, and they all go along to support him. He's by far the most talented one there, of course, out of regulars and rookies, and the little old woman who owns the antiquated café it's hosted in loves seeing him there.

They run into him outside of the door, where he has, apparently, been waiting for them. There's an elaborate crown of crocuses nesting atop his rust-and-gold hair. He beams when he sees them coming towards him, hand in tentative hand, and when they are close enough, his smile widens and he enfolds Grantaire in a tight embrace.

"Hello." He says, in his lyrical voice, and Enjolras doesn't really know how he knew already, but Grantaire's thoughts supply the answer soon enough, and he almost blushes.

"Hey." Says Grantaire, and Enjolras echoes him.

"I have to go on soon, but I wanted to say congratulations beforehand. I'm really glad you're doing this." Jehan is never anything but sincere, and he bobs his head as he finishes talking, and then ducks back inside, leaving them alone on the pavement.

Grantaire takes a deep breath, and Enjolras turns to him curiously.

"So," he says, "how do you wanna do this?"

Enjolras furrows his brow.

"Do what?" He asks.

"Well I just thought... I don't know, maybe you didn't want everyone to know?" Grantaire won't quite meet his eyes, and Enjolras doesn't have to look into his thoughts to know what he's thinking.

"Grantaire." He says, and Grantaire looks up hesitantly. "I'm not ashamed of you, if that's what you're worried about, but if you don't want people to know then-"

"No no no, I just..." His voice tails off, and he bites his lip. It's a momentary distraction, but Enjolras refocuses when he speaks again.

"I don't know." He admits. "Don't get me wrong, Enjolras, you have no idea how happy I am that you want this, but I don't know if I'm ready for everyone else to find out, yet. I'm not used to it myself and I don't want everyone else butting in, not now."

And Enjolras understands.

"Combeferre and Courfeyrac know." He confesses, and Grantaire laughs quietly.

"Given exceptions to the rule." He assures him. "I mean, I have Jehan, right? But the others don't need to know, not yet. Is that okay?"

"Of course." Enjolras says, and he means it. He squeezes Grantaire's hand once before letting it go. "Shall we go in, then? Before we miss Jehan?"

Grantaire looks a little regretful at the absence of Enjolras' touch, but he nods, and they enter the little building together.

*

An hour and a half later, and Enjolras is regretting his easy compliance, because Grantaire is sitting barely two feet away with his drink, thinking obscene thoughts, and it's really, _really_ not fair, because Enjolras can't do anything about it.

Blocking him out is a practical impossibility, and it's becoming harder and harder to admire Jehan's skill as he stands on stage and recites verses about inequality because Grantaire’s expression is totally oblivious, he’s not even looking at Enjolras, but he’s thinking about pressing him against the wall and fucking him senseless, and that is just not fair. He’s sitting there and he doesn’t even realise how loud he’s thinking, the effect those thoughts are having on Enjolras, whose hands are clenched in white-knuckled fists under the table as he resists the urge to touch, and Bahorel keeps giving him odd looks, but he’s doing the best he can.

He has never been more grateful for the end of the night, but even as the cafe closes and they all stand huddled outside the door, unwilling to say goodbye, Enjolras still can’t get close to Grantaire, and he really, really wants to.

Courfeyrac manages to persuade Bahorel, Éponine and Feuilly to continue the night, and Enjolras is very grateful, because it means that they only have to share the walk back to Grantaire’s flat with Jehan.

They leave the rest standing on the curb, trying to persuade Combeferre to be their designated driver for the evening, and as soon as they’re out of sight, Enjolras latches on to Grantaire’s hand and lifts it to his mouth to press a kiss to the cold skin. Grantaire’s eyes widen in surprise, but he smiles, and squeezes Enjolras hand once, and it’s not what Enjolras wants, by any stretch of the imagination, but it appeases him slightly, and he at least manages to hold himself in check until they’ve said goodbye to Jehan and Grantaire is shutting the apartment door behind him.

Enjolras doesn’t give him a chance before he is sliding his fingers into his curls and crowding him against the door, kissing him slowly, deeply, until they both need to pull away for air.

“You need to not think things like that in public.” Enjolras breathes, fingers still linked behind Grantaire’s neck, and Grantaire blinks once, confused, and then realisation comes over his features quickly, and he grins, and it’s wicked, and Enjolras doesn’t know how he missed it, but suddenly he’s the one pushed against the door, and Grantaire is stood smirking in front of him.   

He presses his lips quickly to Enjolras' again, and before Enjolras can open his eyes, Grantaire is on his knees, and undoing Enjolras' jeans with swift, skilful hands. The denim falls away from Enjolras' slim hips, and Grantaire runs his hands up the sides of Enjolras' legs almost teasingly. Enjolras' boxers go the same way as his jeans, and Grantaire's lips are around his cock. He gasps, and as if by reflex his hands bury themselves again in Grantaire's hair.

"Grantaire..." He says, and it's practically a moan. Grantaire grins around his erection, looks up with devilish eyes and his thoughts are an open channel.

_Shall we guess how many of your meetings are going to end with me sucking you off in a bathroom stall?_

A whine escapes through Enjolras' teeth. His hips stutter forward, an involuntary response to Grantaire's swirling tongue, and he squeezes his eyes shut, fingers burrowing deeper into Grantaire's curls.

"R..." He tries again, but there's no coherency, no sentence to follow. He doesn't know what to say except that Grantaire is wonderful, is incredible, is slowly driving him to insanity. His mouth is a miracle. "Jesus, _Grantaire_."

And it's worse (it's better) because he can hear Grantaire. It's pleasure transmitted twofold, and soon he is unravelling, Grantaire's name littered among the nonsense that pours out of his mouth.

When he comes, Grantaire swallows like it's nothing, and Enjolras goes to his knees to meet him in a kiss.

"Next time, can you at least warn me before you start filling your head with that stuff?" Enjolras asks weakly, leaning his forehead against Grantaire's.

Grantaire laughs, and Enjolras has to admit, it's not particularly encouraging.

*

(It doesn’t get any easier to leave Grantaire, Enjolras discovers. He wakes up, pale sunlight shivering through the window, and turns to see Grantaire, leaning up on his elbows and watching him with a quiet smile. His thoughts are calm, peaceful, content, and of them Enjolras is the nucleus. He’s smiling before he’s fully awake.

_Good morning, Sunshine._ Grantaire thinks, and Enjolras smiles wider.

“Good morning.” He replies.

When he drags himself away for one of the few classes he hasn't been expelled from, he’s wearing one of Grantaire’s shirts. It’s too big for him, wide in the shoulders and baggy in the sleeves, but he is adamant that Grantaire will not have it back.)

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry you had to wait a little longer for this one, my laptop really screwed up on me over the weekend and I just got it working again.
> 
> Also, fair warning: the angst that you all expected in chapter 11? It might be coming up. Weirdly, the more I post of this the less confident I feel about it. Oh well, hope you guys are still enjoying it.

He should stop getting into fights.

He should, and he's well aware of it. There's blood drying into the collar of Grantaire's shirt and a trail of it bridging the gap between his nose and his split lip, and the soreness around his eye socket will bruise nicely, he has no doubt. Combeferre is going to be furious.

But it's hard to hold himself back when a gang of law students desperate to prove their masculinity decide that harassing him and Feuilly as he walks him to the art studio at the end of their shared break is a fun way to pass the time.

From the first shout of, "Hey, faggots!", Enjolras knew it wasn't going to end well.

"Ignore it." Feuilly had told him, noticing the reflexive stiffening of his shoulders. "You can sue them for harassment or something later, Enjolras, right now it's really not worth it."

And Enjolras really admires his restraint, and follows his advice to the best of his ability, but when a solid shove from behind sends Feuilly almost sprawling, he finds it a little difficult to keep his cool, and when the first stone whips through the air and cracks barely an inch from Feuilly's boots, well. He can't really be held responsible. He waits just as long as it takes for Feuilly to disappear safely into the art studio with a backwards glance of concern, and then turns slowly on his heel.

The all-American bully and his friends grin idiotically.

"I'd really like it if you walked away right now." He says, and it comes out perfectly calm, ice-cold and inflectionless.

The leader, weighing another stone in a meaty fist, smirks, and takes a step forward. He tosses the stone, and it rattles harmlessly at Enjolras' feet, but the message is clear.

"Make me." He says.

Enjolras looks down at the rock, sighs, and then lifts his head. He's taller than the other man, by a couple of inches, but nowhere near as well-built. Enjolras has always relied on speed and strategy in a fight, and it's worked so far, so he doesn't hesitate before snapping his fist forward and shattering the other man's smug expression.

After that, it's kind of a blur. He guesses he's pretty lucky that the waste-of-space law student who started it all is too proud to call his friends in for backup, because Enjolras is good, but he isn't that good.

Still, when he walks away from where they're crowded on the pavement, Enjolras can’t help the feeling of satisfaction, bloody knuckles aside. The leader of their little gang is on his knees cursing him with all the breath left in his lungs, and while he makes his way to his lecture, only limping a little, he reflects that there've definitely been worse fights.

Combeferre’s still going to kill him, though.

*

**(TO: Grantaire**

**16:46**

_Are you at the Musain?_

**FROM: Grantaire**

**16: 50**

_Yeah_

**TO: Grantaire**

**16: 58**

_I'll be there in ten minutes.)_

*

He can tell the minute he walks through the door that something is wrong. Grantaire is sitting at the bar with a glass of something amber clutched in one hand while the other taps out an agitated rhythm on the edge of the bar.

He approaches nervously, trying to ignore the sick feeling of apprehension in his stomach, and lifts himself onto the stool next to Grantaire's.

Grantaire raises his eyes to him slowly, and his expression twists into some approximation of a smile.

"Hey there, Apollo." He says, and Enjolras' insides twist. He suddenly remembers the way he must look.

He's scared to see what Grantaire is thinking.

"I thought you were trying to cut back." He says softly, gesturing to Grantaire's drink, and Grantaire laughs quietly. It's unnatural, feels like being plunged into cold water.

"Yeah, well." He says. His voice is rough, unmusical. Enjolras wants to fix it, but he doesn’t know how. "Text from Feuilly set my nerves on edge earlier. Thought I'd have a drink to calm down."

Enjolras flinches.

"I'm sorry -" he begins, but Grantaire cuts him off. His fingers still tap against the bar, a quick, unhappy rhythm.

"Hey, what for, right? It's not like it matters to me whether or not you get yourself beaten to death, right? It's not like I have any right to tell you whether or not you should take a fucking step back and use your goddamn head to think about something less consequential than your bigger fucking picture, like, I don't know, not bleeding out in an alley somewhere because some stupid motherfucker said something you didn’t like. That'd be fucking ridiculous, right, _Apollo_?"

And there's that nickname again, spat like vitriol through Grantaire's teeth, like it hasn't been in months. Cold, cruel, Godlike. He hates that nickname.

"Grantaire, I'm fine." He says quietly, looking down because yeah, he should think more when shit like this happens. His hot head has caused him problems since he was a twelve year-old kid with distant parents and an attitude problem, _and he never fucking learns._

"Yeah, you fucking look it." Grantaire mutters, and goes to take a drink from his glass, but changes his mind at the last minute, setting it down on the bar. Alcohol swills over the side as he turns in his chair to face him. They both ignore it. “Jesus Christ, Enjolras, what the hell would you have done if there’d been more than one of them? What if he had a knife? How many times is this gonna happen before - ” And it’s like he can’t finish the thought. He closes his eyes, breathes deep, and his fingers rest finally.

"I'm sorry."  And that’s not the right thing to say but what can he do? Promise it won’t happen again? He’d be lying. He lays a hand hesitantly over Grantaire’s fingers where they shake against the bar’s flat surface. Grantaire stiffens and sighs, and then, after a moment, eyes still closed, says,

"Don't, Enjolras. Just - don’t touch me right now."

His voice is tired but clear and Enjolras snaps back his hand like he's been burnt. He doesn't know what to do, because he hasn't seen Grantaire like this for so long. He pries, tentatively, into his head, and finds a storm, a hurricane, worry and anger and fear swirling around, dizzying.

_No fucking self-preservation what the hell does he think I'd do if they found him lying in a ditch somewhere he doesn't know doesn't **think** and he's going to get himself killed - Jesus, he's going to get himself killed one day and where will I be then?_

"Grantaire..." Enjolras says. His throat feels strange, thick, and he thinks, ridiculously, that he’s going to cry. He doesn't know what he can say. Grantaire sounds impossibly old when he speaks, and until now Enjolras has never felt the four years between them.

"Enjolras, get out of my head." It hurts in ways that shouldn't surprise him, but do anyway. "Go home. Just - just go."

And Enjolras can do nothing but obey.

"I'm sorry." He says again, and then leaves before it can get worse. He doesn't think he's ever felt so lost.

*

The apartment is empty when he stumbles through the door, and for once he’s grateful. He closes the door and leans on it heavily. He doesn’t want to think, anymore, his hands in fists, and he realises he’s still wearing Grantaire’s shirt and pulls it over his head, tosses it angrily aside. His hands come up as he sinks against the wood of the door, bury themselves in his hair as he bows his forehead against his knees and refuses to indulge the hot tears in his eyes.

He doesn’t know what to do, and there is a restless, raging energy inside him that wants him to run to Grantaire and apologise until it’s better but he remembers the way Grantaire turned his apology aside and _he doesn’t know what to do_. He wants to curl up in his bed and he doesn’t want to come out until the events of today aren’t anything more than a bad dream. He wants to sleep and wake up with Grantaire’s arms wrapped around him but he can’t because he’s an idiot and he messed it up.

_“Shit.”_ He mutters into the empty apartment, and then slowly stands, picks Grantaire’s shirt up from the floor and pulls it back over his head, hating himself for the way he has to close his eyes and inhale deeply the smell that has settled on it.

*

(Jehan is probably a psychic or something.   
  
It’s the only explanation that makes the current situation make sense. Grantaire has left the Musain and - well, he doesn’t know where he is now, except that it’s loud and cold and probably miles away from his flat, but by some miracle Jehan finds him and helps him up from where he’s sitting on the curb and takes him home, without asking what happened or looking at him like he makes him sick, even though he kind of makes himself sick.

Grantaire really loves Jehan a lot.)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really need to get back into the habit of posting these at the weekend, sorry guys.
> 
> Also yeah, the angst warning applies to this chapter, too. Sorry.
> 
> Also it's pretty short. Sorry.
> 
> Lots of apologising going on today. Sorry.
> 
> WARNING: There's a character death in this chapter. It's no-one major, so don't worry, but just in case.

He surprises Combeferre and Courfeyrac, staggering out of his bedroom at almost noon with his phone in his hand like he's waiting for it to ring any second.

"Enjolras!" Courfeyrac exclaims when he sees him. "I thought you'd be at Grantaire's, still."

Enjolras shakes his head mutely, bites down on his bottom lip and ignores the taste of iron where it's split.

"We're not - I mean - I don't think -" He shakes his head again, pulls the sleeves of Grantaire's shirt over his hands and hugs himself. "I fucked up."

Combeferre and Courfeyrac consider him with identical frowns of confusion.

"Enjolras..." Courfeyrac begins slowly, "what happened?"

And he's not asking about Grantaire, he realises. His eyes are wide with concern bordering horror, and cataloguing his injuries. He'd forgotten about it, mostly, grazed cheekbone, split skin and bloodied nose paling in comparison to the ache when he thinks about Grantaire, but there are darkened rusty stains staining the front of his borrowed shirt, and it's probably something he should have explained. Combeferre raises an eyebrow and folds his arms, and for the second time in as many days Enjolras feels his age.

"I didn't start it." He says hopelessly. Combeferre sighs and shakes his head, approaches and takes Enjolras' hand, examines the cracked skin over his knuckles.

"You need to be more careful." He says, and Enjolras nods.

"That's what Grantaire said." He says softly, and Combeferre looks at him sympathetically, squeezing his hand before he drops it.

"You'll work it out, Chief." Courfeyrac intones, and Enjolras smiles weakly at him. Suddenly, his phone starts ringing, loud and jarring, and he answers without hesitation, bringing it to his ear instantly.

"Grantaire?" He asks hopefully, and tries to curb his disappointment when another voice answers.

" _Mon Cher?_  Enjolras?"

“Marguerite?” Combeferre and Courfeyrac look up at the surprise in his voice. He hasn’t heard from Marguerite in years, wasn’t even aware she knew his number, and out of all of the things he’d had to let go of when he left his parents’ house, the warm, ever-gentle housekeeper was the one of the things he missed the most. “How- how are you?”

“ _Ce n’est pas bien, mon cher_.” Enjolras’ stomach curls at the sadness in her voice. “It’s your grandmother.”

Sudden memories of a kindly wrinkled face, a warm hand squeezing his, boiled sweets in his pockets and his father’s disapproval, old chintz furniture in a cosy living room, and a game she’d invented, where he’d pick an object out of her thoughts and she’d guess what he’d chosen.That honeysuckle laugh when he won, and the scent of cranberries when she pulled him into a hug. Someone stroking his hair and murmuring sweetly in French as he fell dozily into sleep, flour on his small hands when he helped her make cookies at Christmas, and finally, the last argument, when he was 12 years old and his father stopped them from seeing each other.

Letters on his birthday every year since, with no return address.

His grandmother. He staggers, steadies himself against the table when it hits him, a blow to the stomach, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac exchange dark looks. His throat is dry.

“What happened?” He hears his own voice distantly.

“She was sick, chouchou, I’m so sorry.” He can hear that in her voice, she’s close to tears. “The funeral is tomorrow, and I would have told you sooner but your mother, your father…”

He knows she’s still talking, but he can’t make out the words over the sound of his own heartbeat, the buzz which has descended between his ears. He’s sitting down, now, but he doesn’t remember moving, and Combeferre takes the phone gently from him with a frown of concern etched on his face, moves into the kitchen to talk with Marguerite while Courfeyrac takes the seat next to him, puts an arm around his shoulder. He can’t feel anything past the roaring denial in his chest.

Combeferre comes out of the kitchen holding Enjolras’ phone in his hand and looking like he wants to break something.

“Enjolras, I’m so sorry.” He says, and Enjolras looks at him, and he doesn’t know what his expression is but it looks like Combeferre’s heart breaks to see it. Courfeyrac’s arm is almost uncomfortable around his shoulders, like if he thinks he holds on tight enough Enjolras will stop feeling the raging stormy loss like wind around the hollow of his chest. Like Enjolras’ ribcage will mend itself and the splinters of bones lodged in his heart will disappear.

Enjolras is mute, cannot find his voice under the oppressive toll of truth in his head, _your grandmother is dead, your grandmother is dead and you never got to say goodbye_.

He thinks he’s going to be sick.

*

(Grantaire actually is being sick, bent over his toilet while Jehan sits on the edge of the bathtub and rubs his back.)

*  
  
Enjolras’ grief is a raw, animal thing, scraping the insides of his lungs like sandpaper until he can’t think past it. His grandmother, the one member of his family who he could ever believe loved him, who he hasn’t seen since he was twelve years old and now, will never see again.

He doesn’t know how he convinces the others that he’s okay, but he must, because he finds himself alone in his room.

He doesn’t sleep, of course he doesn’t, just sits on the edge of his bed with his phone held loosely in hand. He looks at it blankly, the screen reflecting his own lost expression back at him.

He wants Grantaire.

And his fingers already itch with the urge to type in that well-known number, his shaking digits tapping his agitation against the casing. But he can’t.

He can’t.

He throws the device aside into the dark, and it clatters to the floor amongst discarded books and clothes, and he doesn’t care where it lands or whether it’s broken - he just doesn’t care, any more. He lies back on the covers still-clothed (and it’s Grantaire’s shirt he’s wearing, still) and prays for sleep that just doesn’t come.

*

(“Thank you, Jehan.” Grantaire says, and he’s pale and clammy but more coherent than he’s been in hours. Jehan smiles.

“That’s okay, R. It’s what I’m here for. Will you be okay?”

Grantaire sighs, nods, running a hand through his hair.

“Yeah,” he says, “I think so. I just need…”

Now it is Jehan’s turn to nod.

“Okay. You’ll work it out, Grantaire.”

“I hope so.”)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the penultimate chapter! But don't worry, there may, at some point in the future, be more from this 'verse.
> 
> Anyway, this chapter contains the funeral, and Enjolras' parents. Warning: They are not nice people. Also, there's a fair amount of Grantaire' POV. Hope you enjoy.
> 
> (Ooh, also, look out for a Next to Normal reference. I couldn't help myself.)

Combeferre ties a black tie around his neck because his hands shake so badly that he can’t, and drives him to the church alone. It's out of town, a country village somewhere, and they have to wake up early to make it on time. Courfeyrac apologises that he can’t be there, but Enjolras understands how much he wishes he could, and it is easy to forgive him. They park some distance down the street from the hearse, and Combeferre gets out of the car when Enjolras does.

“I’ll be waiting here.” He promises, and Enjolras nods distractedly. He can see a small procession entering the church, the short, kind figure of Marguerite and a flash of his own rich blonde hair under an elegant veil of rich black lace, his mother, statuesque and icily composed. His father cuts an imposing figure next to her, dark-haired and calculating. They aren’t standing like a couple, no speech, no glance between them - and four years has left them all but untouched. Combeferre calls his attention back.

“Enjolras,” he says, softly. “You have every right to be here.”

Enjolras nods again, swallows, glances back at his parents and nods once more, as if to himself.

“I know.” He says. “Thank you, Combeferre.”

Combeferre squeezes his shoulder.

“I’m right here.” Is all he says. It’s enough.

*

(Combeferre thinks he looks desperately young.   
  
He remembers an eighteen year-old with red-rimmed eyes and a single suitcase saying goodbye to his housekeeper on the curb in front of the gates of a mansion, and not for the first time, he has to quell the tide of anger that rushes to engulf him. His heart clenches for Enjolras.)

*

It’s an open casket affair, and Enjolras’ memory of her face is faultless. It’s a cliché that is, here, true, because she looks like she’s sleeping. There is a slow, monotonous churn of grief in his chest. The rows of pews behind him as he stops before the coffin are deathly silent, and he can feel eyes on his back, a quiet, indecipherable buzz of thoughts from all around the room. _The prodigal son returns._  In his mind’s eyes he can see his parents, on the second row, a clear six inches of space between them. His father’s expression betrays nothing but the muscle in his jaw jumping once before he can still it, and his mother picking a piece of imaginary lint from her shoulder as if she hasn’t noticed him. The first row is empty. He turns, faces them, and walks back up the aisle, his steps quiet but amplified by the cold chamber. He sits in the very last row of pews, alone, and refuses to meet anybody’s eyes. He’s achingly conscious of the discoloured bruise on his cheek,  and of the red converses on his feet, one of only two pairs of shoes he owns, and all he’d been able to come up with at such short notice. Marguerite approaches, and slides into the seat next to him. She offers a watery smile and takes his hand in both of hers, brushing her thumb lightly over his knuckles. She says nothing.

The service manages to be both elegant and simple, and Enjolras thinks, with a twist of bitterness, that his father has perfected the art of making it look like he cares. But Enjolras notices that he doesn’t stand before the coffin for more than half a minute.

*

There are not many of them, and Enjolras stands out like a sore thumb. Marguerite keeps a firm grasp of his hand, and when they go outside and lower the coffin into the cold ground, she is like an anchor.  Under his grandmother’s name, the headstone only reads, “Beloved mother,” and Enjolras quakes with anger that his father would _dare._  The guests drift away, eventually, as the clouds roll in and a light rain falls on them. Enjolras can see Combeferre’s car from where he stands in front of the fresh grave next to Marguerite.

“It’s good to see you, _mon cher._ ” She confides, squeezing his hand. He nods.

“Yeah.” He says. He watches the grave for a minute more, and then squeezes her hand back. The pain in the centre of his chest is like a leaden weight. “Let’s go.”

They are the last to leave her side, but when they walk back through the church, his parents are waiting. His mother twirls a black umbrella in her hand, scattering raindrops.

“Enjolras.” His father says.

He clears his throat.

“Hi, Dad.”

Marguerite’s grip is iron around his wrist. His mother laughs, a high, fluting sound that should be charming but is only cold.

"That's funny." She says. "I think you forfeited the right to call us your parents a long time ago."

Enjolras can't help the way his shoulders tense.

"Madame..." Marguerite chastises softly. She squeezes his hand again.

"No, she's right, Marguerite." The coldness in his father's voice almost makes him flinch, but instead he squares his shoulders. "He shouldn't call himself our son anymore."

"Quite right."

Combeferre's voice comes from behind him, and he turns, surprised. The gate to the side of the church swings quietly shut as he walks towards them.

He inclines his head to Enjolras' parents.

"Mariette, René. I wish I could say it was a pleasure to see you again, but I won't waste your time lying."

_Are you all right?_ His thoughts ask, but he doesn't look at Enjolras to see his response.

"I'm fine." Enjolras answers quietly.

"No-one asked." His father spits. Enjolras' free hand clenches into a fist.

"I did, actually." Combeferre's voice cuts through the air like an oar into water, calm and smooth, perfectly controlled. Enjolras knows that this means he is angry, and trying very hard not to show it. His thoughts are sharp-edged, thunder clouds.

Enjolras’ father's confusion clears into understanding, and then an ugly sneer.

"What, the freak read your mind?" He looks at Enjolras, disdainful. "I'd hoped you'd grown out of that ridiculousness by now, boy."

The words are nothing he hasn't heard from him before, and Enjolras is angered that they still have the power to sting.

He opens his mouth to retort, but Combeferre beats him to it.

"Yeah, and I'd hoped you'd grown up enough to realise what idiots you were in letting him go. Guess we've both been proven wrong." His expression twists into one of disgust. "You should be on your knees begging forgiveness right now. Your son is one of the best people I know, and you don't deserve him."

"How dare you - " His mother intones, every inch of her venomous, and Combeferre cuts her off.

"No, how dare you. I sincerely hope you wake up one day and realise that you have missed out on raising an incredible son, but I doubt you will." Combeferre looks like he wants to say more, but restrains himself, pulling in a deep breath. "René, I'm sorry about your mother, she was a wonderful woman and she deserved a better son than you." He turns his back on them, to where Enjolras and Marguerite are standing, half in shock. "Marguerite, it's lovely to see you again, please feel free to call anytime." And then to Enjolras, "Come on, Enjolras, we're leaving."

And he turns away without another word.

Marguerite walks with him to Combeferre's car, and neither of them look back once. She pulls him down for a tight embrace, kisses his cheek and then breaks away. Her finger brushes the split in his lip.

"Look after yourself, _chouchou_." She says, and Enjolras nods.

"I'll try."

She throws her arms quickly around him once more, and then allows him to climb into the car. She waves as they drive away.

Combeferre is silent until they're a fair distance away, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. He heaves a sigh, eventually, arms relaxing, and looks at Enjolras.

"I'm sorry." He says, and Enjolras frowns.

"For what?"

"Your parents. I just... Get angry." He lifts a hand from the wheel to run it through his hair. "I'm sorry, I should've stopped myself."

"Combeferre, you don't need to apologise, I promise."

Combeferre scrutinises his expression, and then, after a moment, nods and relaxes fully against his seat, looking to the road.

"Okay." He breathes. There are a few minutes of silence, and the next time he looks back at Enjolras, his expression contains only concern.

"Now, how are you? Really?"

Now it is Enjolras' turn to sigh.

"She was my grandmother. I haven't seen her since I was a kid, Combeferre, but she was the only one of them who ever have a damn about me, and now she's gone, and I realise I'm never going to have the chance to make up for what _he_ did. I should've done something. Found out where she lived, maybe."

"Maybe." Combeferre says, and Enjolras loves him for his honesty. "If you'd been able to. Those letters you got never told you where to find her."

"Yeah, I guess."

But he stays quiet for the rest of the journey, thinking of  the rhymes he learned from her.

The sun is starting to set when the car pulls up in front of their building, and Enjolras climbs out tiredly.

"Thank you for driving me." He says when they enter the apartment.

"You're welcome, Enjolras." Combeferre's features are soft with sympathy. "You should get some sleep."

"Yeah. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Enjolras."

His bedroom is quiet, dark, and as he makes his way to the bed, his foot sends an object on the floor spinning. His phone. He picks it up disinterestedly, and the screen lights under his fingertips.

**2 missed calls**

**FROM: Grantaire**

He freezes. There is no voicemail icon, no message to listen to, but Grantaire called him.

He sits down on the edge of the bed mechanically, phone in hand, and holds his breath as he dials Grantaire's number.

He picks up on the second ring.

"Enjolras?" That well-loved voice rough with alcohol and relief and apology. Enjolras releases his breath.

"Hi." He says, only it doesn't sound like his voice, small and quiet and distorted with weariness and grief. He feels tears pool in his eyes and angrily, blinks them away.

"Enjolras? Are you okay?" Grantaire asks, hesitation and concern mingling in his tone. Enjolras' breath hitches, and he hangs up, drops his phone on the bed beside him before he can figure out why. His cheeks are wet.

*

(Grantaire stares down at the phone in his hand, Enjolras' disconnected call flashing on the screen, the strange wavering note in his voice, the strangled gasp before he hung up.

He grabs a jacket and heads out without a second more of thought.

When Combeferre opens the door, his face is carved of flint, and worry sits high on his brow like a circlet.

“Grantaire.” He says, and his voice is cordial but devoid of warmth. Grantaire knows that he deserves this, for how he has hurt Enjolras, and bows his head.

“Combeferre.” He says, and looking over his shoulder, “Hey, Courf.”

Courfeyrac nods, a careful inclination of his head, but his expression is not as hard as Combeferre’s - he only looks unhappy.

“Where is Enjolras?” He asks. His voice severs the pleasantries. Like a knife sharp with worry. It cuts through to the bone of the issue, and Combeferre exchanges a look with Courfeyrac, conveying something he can’t read.

“He’s in his room.” Courfeyrac says finally, and Combeferre sighs, and opens the door further, stepping back to allow Grantaire entry.

He catches the glance they shoot to each other.

“What aren’t you telling me?” He says warily. Combeferre sighs again and runs a hand through his hair.

“It was his grandmother’s funeral, today.”

The bottom falls out of Grantaire’s stomach.

“He didn’t say -” He starts, the words spilling out of his mouth like an excuse.

“He didn’t find out until yesterday morning.”

Yesterday morning had seen Grantaire slumping pathetically over the toilet with his forehead against the cold ceramic and Jehan’s hollow comfort in his ears.

“Can I -” He doesn’t finish the question, but he gestures to Enjolras’ room, a tiny twitch of his fingers. Combeferre nods tiredly, and that’s the end of it.)

*

Enjolas’ door cracks open, and a triangle of light spills over his floor, but he can’t see who has entered.

*

(Grantaire can’t see Enjolras at first, his lightless room making it hard to see anything at all, but then he notices the toes of a pair of worn red converse just barely peeping out from beside Enjolras' fit-to-bursting bookshelf, and, slowly, walks towards them. He has to manoeuvre around scattered paper on the floor, being careful not to crease them. Letters, as far as he can tell, and he doesn’t have to ask to know who they are from. Enjolras' knees are pulled into his chest and he is curved over them so only his hands and wild blond curls are visible, and he's wearing his suit, still, but it's rumpled and creased. Grantaire's heart aches ferociously, wolves in the cavity of his chest howling up at the distant moon. It’s faintly ridiculous, but he realises that he’s angry because the world they live in is not the one Enjolras deserves.  
  
He squeezes into the gap beside Enjolras, and says nothing. And Enjolras stays silent and still for about ten more minutes, but eventually, his spine straightens, and he lifts his head from his knees to lean it against Grantaire's shoulder. He is crying, Grantaire notes, silent, thick tears that don't just trickle, but pour down his cheeks from red-rimmed eyes, drops of fine salty crystal collecting in his long golden eyelashes. He’s tense, leaning against Grantaire’s shoulder, as if he’s expecting reproach, wound tight as if to snap away in an instant. Grantaire berates himself for that, and winds an arm around his shoulder, pulls him closer until there’s not an inch between them. Enjolras melts like butter into his embrace, shoulders loose with relief. His tears soak Grantaire’s shirt, but eventually the frayed edges of his breath pull together, and he steadies.

“I’m sorry.” Grantaire whispers, kissing the crown of his head. “God, I’m sorry.”)

*

Enjolras allows Grantaire to manoeuvre him onto the bed, shrugs off his crumpled suit jacket and eases off his shoes when Grantaire suggests it in a quiet voice, like Enjolras is a deer he doesn't want to frighten away. Grantaire himself works the knot of Enjolras' tie free, and Enjolras watches him silently, scanning over his features for guidance, as if they will tell him what he should do next. His limbs feel heavy with fatigue and mourning, and his eyelids struggle to stay open over eyes stinging from his tears.

Grantaire looks up, catches him watching, and smiles, soft and gentle, a sweet curl of his lips like an unfurling grapevine. He discards the tie and his fingers find the smooth plastic buttons of Enjolras' once-crisp white shirt, undoing each with fluid movements. When it is done, Enjolras stands to shrug it off of his shoulders, and steps out of his trousers, dropping them carelessly to the floor. He finds hole-ridden sweatpants that probably belonged to Courfeyrac, once, and pulls them on. Grantaire sits on the edge of the bed, expectant, but Enjolras ignores him for a little longer, digging through the jumble on his floor for the shirt he'd abandoned that morning. As he pulls it on, he sees Grantaire's eyes widen in surprise, and then a rueful smile on his mouth.

Enjolras lies down beside him, and tugs his shirt until Grantaire lies back, too. They lie on their sides, facing each other, and then Enjolras wets his lips hesitantly.

"I'm sorry." He offers to the quiet, the first words out of his mouth for hours. Grantaire's relief shows in his eyes, though it is quickly obscured by confusion.

"For what?"

"The other day. I shouldn't have let him provoke me. I shouldn't have made you worry."

Grantaire is looking at him as if his words are alien.

"Enjolras, you don't need to apologise for that." He says, slowly, enunciating every word.

"I was stupid." Enjolras replies. Grantaire laughs dryly.

"Yeah, and I was drunk. You are more than forgiven, I promise. We will be stupid and drunk a million times over, but I hope we’ll be able to get past it." He pauses. "And besides, it was my fault as much as yours. I'm sorry, too."

"You don't have to be." Enjolras reassures him quickly. Grantaire lifts their entwined hands and kisses the tips of his fingers.

"I am, anyway." He says. "Now go to sleep, Enjolras."

"Will you be here when I wake up?" Enjolras asks, and Grantaire's expression softens into something that makes Enjolras' heart feel bare and helpless, sewn onto the outside of his skin.

"Yes." Grantaire promises quietly. Enjolras leans forward to trap him in a kiss, and then settles, eyes closed, into his chest. Warm hands on his back, rubbing a comforting circle. Sleep overtakes him quickly, and for that, he's grateful.

*

(Grantaire slips out of Enjolras' room a while later, when he's sure the other man is asleep, just to get a drink. In the living room, Combeferre is sitting, awake still, with a book on his lap. The floor lamp next to him is the only source of light in the room, and it somehow manages to makes him look imposing. He looks up at Grantaire's entrance.

"How is he?" He asks quietly.

"He's going to be okay." Grantaire says, and desperately hopes it's true. Combeferre nods.

"That's good." He says. Grantaire offers a vague hum of assent as he stands, stretches, and heads towards his bedroom. "Goodnight." He says.

"'Night." Grantaire replies. Just as he's about to enter the kitchen, Combeferre's voice comes again, soft and dangerous.

"Grantaire?" He says. Grantaire turns to face him, confused. He is standing with his arms folded neatly across his chest, every inch cold civility. "I like you, but if you hurt him, you know I know where you live. I'm sure you can imagine how unpleasant I could make your life."

Grantaire is well aware of how unpleasant Combeferre could make his life. He swallows, and nods, suddenly unable to locate his vocal chords, and Combeferre echoes the gesture.

"Good. I'll see you in the morning." He says, and disappears into his room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

When Grantaire returns to slide in beside Enjolras' sleep-warm body, his hands on Enjolras' skin are especially gentle. Combeferre is wonderful, but never let it be said that he isn't also one of the most terrifying people on the planet.)


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter! Wow, this is a big moment for me, I've never actually finished a story before.
> 
> Erm, thank you! I'm really glad this got such a positive response, and I'm very grateful that all of you took the time to read and tell me what you thought. It means a lot.
> 
> Also, if you're really going to miss this 'verse, let me know, because not that I want to get your hopes up, but it's possible I might dabble here again.

It takes some time, just a few days, for things to settle again. The rhythm of their fragile life together stutters and then picks back up, and if in the first week after the funeral Enjolras finds more empty bottles around Grantaire’s flat, he doesn’t say anything. Just holds his hand and takes the taste of alcohol into his own mouth from Grantaire’s lips. And he mourns with too much violence, he knows, coming home bruised and bleeding from street fights and riots, but Grantaire understands that he needs the violence just as other people need to spend days crying, and instead of berating him, he teaches him how to fight. They’re happy. Warm and content exploring the worlds inside of each other, gentle touches and the way they sound in the dead of night, splintering the darkness with shallow gasps and their names, bursting from kiss-bruised lips.

And of course, Courfeyrac and Jehan are ecstatic, meeting them in coffee shops and beaming at their linked fingers on the table-top, while Combeferre rolls his eyes and turns his head to hide his smile. Enjolras moves through the days with a near-permanent grin on his face, and he delights in the smallest of things, and he is surprised at how is is possible to be this happy.

_Shall we tell them, do you think?_ Grantaire thinks one day, and Enjolras looks up at him from where he is resting with his head in his lap. Grantaire is watching him expectantly.

(Courfeyrac has been all but begging them to do it for weeks, to put him out of his misery.

“ _I_ know you’re dating, and _Jehan_ knows you’re dating, and Combeferre knows, too, and that’s fine, but Enjolras, if I have to keep this secret from the others for much longer, I will _die_.”)

“Do you want to?” He asks, and Grantaire’s smile is almost shy.

“I think so.” He says. “Do you?”

Enjolras smiles, amused.

“Grantaire, I would have told everyone a month ago if you’d wanted me to.”

Grantaire’s smile grows, and he leans down for a kiss.

_That’s because you’re a huge sap,_  He thinks, and Enjolras grins under his mouth.

“You love me.” He says, murmuring against Grantaire’s lips.

_I do,_  Grantaire agrees. Enjolras is the sunlight bouncing off of the waves of his thought. His horizon.

Enjolras hums contentedly around Grantaire’s bottom lip, which he has trapped lightly between his teeth, and Grantaire groans, and shifts until he is covering Enjolras’ body with his own, crowding him against the cushions. Enjolras releases his mouth, smirks and pulls away. Grantaire looks at him with eyes bright and eager and blue, and Enjolras kisses him again. One of Grantaire’s knees slots between his legs, and at the gasp that’s forced out of him, he smiles. He loves Grantaire. _So. Much._

A loud gasp from the door makes them jerk apart in surprise, and Enjolras’ fist in his shirt is the only thing that stops Grantaire from falling off the sofa. They look up, and see Marius, standing, with a mortified blush on his face, in the doorway.

“Oh, hey, Marius.” Grantaire says. Marius looks like forming words is a little beyond him. He lets out a strangled, squeaking kind of sound, and then bolts out of the room like the hounds of hell are chasing him. Enjolras and Grantaire exchange a look.

“It’s possible that I may have forgotten about Courfeyrac’s party.” Enjolras says, after a second, and Grantaire laughs as he disentangles their limbs, standing. He offers a hand to pull Enjolras up off the sofa, and Enjolras takes it, attempting to smoothen his thoroughly-mussed curls with his other hand.

“Well.” Grantaire says, smiling. “I suppose it’s time to face the firing squad.”

*  
They’re crowding the hallway outside the apartment, Courfeyrac leaning against the wall and smirking while Marius splutters in the general direction of a very confused Cosette. Éponine is struggling to hold in laughter at his bright red complexion, and Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta are simply looking bemusedly between Marius and Courfeyrac, and attempting to find out what they missed. When they open the door, Courfeyrac takes one look at them and bursts into laughter, holding his ribs and gasping. Marius regards them with an expression halfway between horror and embarrassment.

“Hi.” Grantaire says, and Courfeyrac’s laugh gets louder. Enjolras shoots him an annoyed glance.

“Oh, thank God. Can one of you _please_ explain what just happened?” Cosette asks exasperatedly, and they exchange a look.

“Well -” Enjolras begins, but his explanation is drowned out by the arrival of Bahorel, Feuilly and Jehan.

“Did someone kick Courf in the stomach?” Bahorel asks easily, and, by the way he’s wheezing, it’s not an unfair guess.

“Unfortunately not.” Enjolras says, and Grantaire’s lips quirk up into a smile, and he squeezes Enjolras’ hand. Marius notices, and seems to recover, marginally.

“You - you -” He begins, but he’s still clearly too shocked to finish the sentence. Grantaire takes over smoothly.

“Were making out like teenagers on Enjolras’ sofa? Yeah, just a little.”

There is only a milisecond of silence as that sinks in, and then Bahorel lets out a howl like a wounded animal, and Joly squeals so loudly that Bossuet winces.

"Why? Why? Why couldn't you have put this off for like, two more months?!" Bahorel storms, and they both look at him, perplexed, as Joly flutters his hands and speaks over Éponine, who is berating them for keeping it a secret. The noise is chaotic, both inside and outside his friends' minds, and Enjolras holds onto Grantaire's hand as if he's driftwood. Courfeyrac clears his throat pointedly, and holds out his hand. Bahorel growls, stalks over him, and pulls a crumpled bank note from his back pocket, stuffing it into Courfeyrac's waiting hand almost violently.

"Bastards." He mutters. But he claps Grantaire on the shoulder good-naturally as he retreats past them to stand again by his roommates. Éponine is next. She sighs, resigned, as she opens her purse.

"It's not that I didn't believe in you, R." She says as she hands Courfeyrac the cash. "It's just that I thought hell would freeze over before Enjolras realised what that funny feeling in his pants was."

"No hard feelings." Says Grantaire, and looking at his smug grin, Enjolras can see that he's enjoying this.

Bossuet gives over a fistful of notes from himself, Joly and Musichetta, and Feuilly follows, and Enjolras raises his eyebrows as Courfeyrac counts the bills with a grin that splits his face in two.

"Is Courf seriously the only one who betted on this outcome?" He asks, a little stung. He knows he has a reputation for maybe being a little obtuse with emotional matters, but still. He thought they had more faith in him than this.

Grantaire clears his throat then, sheepishly, and lets go of Enjolras' hand so he can get his wallet. Enjolras stares at him.

"You too?" He asks, feeling betrayed. Grantaire smiles and lifts his hand to his lips.

"Look at it this way, Enjolras. I was betting against myself, not against you."

And Enjolras frowns, because it's still not okay for Grantaire to think so little of himself, but he will let it lie, for now.

*

Eventually, they actually manage to get into the apartment, rather than just standing around outside it, and everyone is chatting happily, sprawled around like so many cats, limbs entangled.

Enjolras and Grantaire are back on the sofa, Enjolras cradled against Grantaire's chest, and there's a beautiful warmth in his chest that they can be this, now, in front of their friends.

Grantaire is talking easily with Joly and Bossuet who are well on their way to drunkenness, and he brushes his thumb across Enjolras' hip absent-mindedly every so often. It's pretty wonderful. The overwhelming thunder of thought is filtered through his happiness, and he can feel the headache abating even as Marius starts to mentally recite all of the things which are perfect about Cosette _ad nauseum._

Sooner or later, Combeferre returns. He takes one look around, nods, and then turns instantly to Courfeyrac, holding out his hand in the same expectant manner that the other had adopted before. Courfeyrac sighs in mock resignation, and hands over half of the bills in his small pile. Enjolras looks on, eyebrows raised, and Combeferre catches his eye, shrugs, and smiles. And Enjolras can feel Grantaire's warm arms around him and his heartbeat at his back, hear Éponine's laughter as she talks to Feuilly and see Jehan smile as he writes in loops on his forearm, and he can't think of a single reason not to smile right back.

**Author's Note:**

> So I saw the post by drunkpylades and I absolutely couldn't resist. It got a little out of hand, to be honest.
> 
> The idea totally belongs to drunkpylades, and thanks to Rayne (icouldfallmadlyinbedwithyou.tumblr.com) for encouraging me.


End file.
